THE 


WORKS  OF  BRET  HARTE. 


COLLECTED  AND  REVISED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS 

AND  EASTERN  SKETCHES 


BY 

BRET  HARTE     )  £S  t  -  *  1  *y>**1 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

NEW  YORK:  II  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  STREET 

Qtyt  Btoemfce  Press, 


au 


Copyright,  1872,  1875,  1878,  and  1879, 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.  AND  HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1882, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


mcroft  Library 


CONTENTS. 


TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS. 

PACK 

HOW  SANTA  GLAUS  CAME  TO  SIMPSON'S  BAR         ....  3 

MRS.  SKAGGS'S  HUSBANDS     .          . 21 

AN  EPISODE  OF  FIDDLETOWN 59 

A  PASSAGE  IN  THE  LIFE  OF  MR.  JOHN  OAKHURST          .          .          .Ill 

THE  ROSE  OF  TUOLUMNE 138 

A  MONTE  FLAT  PASTORAL 167 

BABY  SYLVESTER 187 

WAN  LEE,  THE  PAGAN 2O5 

AN  HEIRESS  OF  RED  DOG 224 

THE  MAN  ON  THE  BEACH      . 242 

ROGER  CATRON'S  FRIEND    .       .   ' 280 

"JINNY" 297 

TWO  SAINTS  OF  THE  FOOT-HILLS 307 

"WHO  WAS  MY  QUIET  FRIEND?" 321 

"  A  TOURIST  FROM  INJIANNY  "  ...'...  331 

THE  FOOL  OF  FIVE  FORKS 343 

THE  MAN  FROM  SOLANO 37<3 

A  GHOST  OF  THE  SIERRAS   • 379 


Vl  Contents. 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 

PAGE 

VIEWS  FROM  A  GERMAN  SPION 391 

PETER  SCIIROEDER 404 

MORNING  ON  THE  AVENUES  .......     424 

MY  FRIEND  THE  TRAMP 432 

A  SLEEPING  CAR  EXPERIENCE 445 

THE  MAN  WHOSE  YOKE  WAS  NOT  EASY 453 

THE  OFFICE-SEEKER    .          •          .          .          .          .          .          .          .461 

WITH  THE  ENTRIES      .          .          . 477 


TALES  OF  THE  ARGONAUTS. 

(Continued.) 


VOL.  III. 


@>anta  Claus  Came  to 

!5ar, 


IT  had  been  raining  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacramento.  The 
North  Fork  had  overflowed  its  banks,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek 
was  impassable.  The  few  boulders  that  had  marked  the 
summer  ford  at  Simpson's  Crossing  were  obliterated  by  a 
vast  sheet  of  water  stretching  to  the  foothills.  The  up-stage 
was  stopped  at  Granger's  ;  the  last  ^ail  had  been  aban- 
doned in  the  tules,  the  rider  swimming  for  his  life.  "  An 
area,"  remarked  the  "  Sierra  Avalanche,"  with  pensive  local 
pride,  "  as  large  as  the  State  of  Massachusetts  is  now  under 
water." 

Nor  was  the  weather  any  better  in  the  foothills.  The 
mud  lay  deep  on  the  mountain  road  ;  waggons  that  neither 
physical  force  nor  moral  objurgation  could  move  from  the 
evil  ways  into  which  they  had  fallen  encumbered  the  track, 
and  the  way  to  Simpson's  Bar  was  indicated  by  broken- 
down  teams  and  hard  swearing.  And  farther  on,  cut  off 
and  inaccessible,  rained  upon  and  bedraggled,  smitten  by 
high  winds  and  threatened  by  high  water,  Simpson's  Bar, 
on  the  eve  of  Christmas  Day,  1862,  clung  like  a  swallow's 
nest  to  the  rocky  entablature  and  splintered  capitals  of 
Table  Mountain,  and  shook  in  the  blast. 

As  night  shut  down  on  the  settlement,  a  few  lights 
gleamed  through  the  mist  from  the  windows  of  cabins  on 
either  side  of  the  highway  now,  crossed  and  gullied  by  law- 


4  How  Santa  Claus 

less  streams  and  swept  by  marauding  winds.  Happily 
most  of  the  population  were  gathered  at  Thompson's  store, 
clustered  around  a  redhot  stove,  at  which  they  silently 
spat  in  some  accepted  sense  of  social  communion  that  per- 
haps rendered  conversation  unnecessary.  Indeed,  most 
methods  of  diversion  had  long  since  been  exhausted  on 
Simpson's  Bar ;  high  water  had  suspended  the  regular 
occupations  on  gulch  and  on  river,  and  a  consequent  lack 
of  money  and  whisky  had  taken  the  zest  from  most  ille- 
gitimate recreation.  Even  Mr.  Hamlin  was  fain  to  leave 
the  Bar  with  fifty  dollars  in  his  pocket — the  only  amount 
actually  realised  of  the  large  sums  won  by  him  in  the  suc- 
cessful exercise  of  his  arduous  profession.  "  Ef  I  was  asked," 
he  remarked  somewhat  later, — "  ef  I  was  asked  to  pint  out 
a  purty  little  village  where  a  retired  sport  as  didn't  care  for 
money  could  exercise  hisself,  frequent  and  lively,  I'd  say 
Simpson's  Bar ;  but  for  a  young  man  with  a  large  family 
depending  on  his  exertions  it  don't  pay."  As  Mr.  Hamlin's 
family  consisted  mainly  of  female  adults,  this  remark  is 
quoted  rather  to  show  the  breadth  of  his  humour  than  the 
exact  extent  of  his  responsibilities. 

Howbeit,  the  unconscious  objects  of  this  satire  sat  that 
evening  in  the  listless  apathy  begotten  of  idleness  and  lack 
of  excitement.  Even  the  sudden  splashing  of  hoofs  before 
the  door  did  not  arouse  them.  Dick  Bullen  alone  paused 
in  the  act  of  scraping  out  his  pipe,  and  lifted  his  head,  but 
no  other  one  of  the  group  indicated  any  interest  in,  or 
recognition  of,  the  man  who  entered. 

It  was  a  figure  familiar  enough  to  the  company,  and 
known  in  Simpson's  Bar  as  "The  Old  Man."  A  man  of 
perhaps  fifty  years ;  grizzled  and  scant  of  hair,  but  still  fresh 
and  youthful  of  complexion.  A  face  full  of  ready  but  not 
very  powerful  sympathy,  with  a  chameleon-like  aptitude  for 
taking  on  the4  shade  and  colour  of  contiguous  moods  and 


Came  to  Simpsorts  Bar.  5 

feelings.  He  had  evidently  just  left  some  hilarious  com- 
panions, and  did  not  at  first  notice  the  gravity  of  the  group, 
but  clapped  the  shoulder  of  the  nearest  man  jocularly,  and 
threw  himself  into  a  vacant  chair. 

"  Jest  -heard  the  best  thing  out,  boys  !  Ye  know  Smiley, 
over  yar — Jim  Smiley — funniest  man  in  the  Bar?  Well, 
Jim  was  jest  telling  the  richest  yarn  about " 

"  Smiley's  a fool,"  interrupted  a  gloomy  voice. 

"  A  particular skunk,"  added  another  in  sepulchral 

accents. 

A  silence  followed  these  positive  statements.  The  Old 
Man  glanced  quickly  around  the  group.  .Then  his  face 
slowly  changed.  "  That's  so,"  he  said  reflectively,  after  a 
pause,  "  certingly  a  sort  of  a  skunk  and  suthin'  of  a  fool 
In  course."  He  was  silent  for  a  moment  as  in  painful 
contemplation  of  the  unsavouriness  and  folly  of  the  un- 
popular Smiley.  "  Dismal  weather,  ain't  it  ?  "  he  added, 
now  fully  embarked  on  the  current  of  prevailing  sentiment. 
"  Mighty  rough  papers  on  the  boys,  and  no  show  for  money 
this  season.  And  to-morrow's  Christmas." 

There  was  a  movement  among  the  men  at  this  announce- 
ment, but  whether  of  satisfaction  or  disgust  was  not  plain. 
"  Yes,"  continued  the  Old  Man  in  the  lugubrious  tone  he 
had,  within  the  last  few  moments,  unconsciously  adopted, 
— "  yes,  Christmas,  and  to-night's  Christmas  Eve.  Ye  see, 
boys,  I  kinder  thought — that  is,  I  sorter  had  an  idee,  jest 
passin'  like,  you  know — that  maybe  ye'd  all  like  to  come 
over  to  my  house  to-night  and  have  a  sort  of  tear  round. 
But  I  suppose,  now,  you  wouldn't  ?  Don't  feel  like  it,  may- 
be?" he  added  with  anxious  sympathy,  peering  into  the 
faces  of  his  companions. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  responded  Tom  Flynn  with  some 
cheerfulness.  "  P'r'aps  we  may.  But  how  about  your  wife, 
Old  Man  ?  What  does*r/fo  say  to  it  ?  " 


6  How  Santa  Claus 

The  Old  Man  hesitated.  His  conjugal  experience  had 
not  been  a  happy  one,  and  the  fact  was  known  to  Simpson's 
Bar.  His  first  wife,  a  delicate,  pretty  little  woman,  had 
suffered  keenly  and  secretly  from  the  jealous  suspicions  of 
her  husband,  until  one  day  he  invited  the  whole  Bar  to  his 
house  to  expose  her  infidelity.  On  arriving,  the  party  found 
the  shy,  petite  creature  quietly  engaged  in  her  household 
duties,  and  retired  abashed  and  discomfited.  But  the  sensi- 
tive woman  did  not  easily  recover  from  the  shock  of  this 
extraordinary  outrage.  It  was  with  difficulty  she  regained 
her  equanimity  sufficiently  to  release  her  lover  from  the 
closet  in  which  he  was  concealed,  and  escape  with  him. 
She  left  a  boy  of  three  years  to  comfort  her  bereaved 
husband.  The  Old  Man's  present  wife  had  been  his  cook. 
She  was  large,  loyal,  and  aggressive. 

Before  he  could  reply,  Joe  Dimmick  suggested  with 
great  directness  that  it  was  the  "  Old  Man's  house,"  and 
that,  invoking  the  Divine  Power,  if  the  case  were  his 
own,  he  would  invite  whom  he  pleased,  even  if  in  so  doing 
he  imperilled  his  salvation.  The  Powers  of  Evil,  he 
further  remarked,  should  contend  against  him  vainly.  All 
this  delivered  with  a  terseness  and  vigour  lost  in  this 
necessary  translation. 

"  In  course.  Certainly.  Thet's  it,"  said  the  Old  Man 
with  a  sympathetic  frown.  "  Thar's  no  trouble  about  thet. 
It's  my  own  house,  built  every  stick  on  it  myself.  Don't 
you  be  afeard  o'  her,  boys.  She  may  cut  up  a  trifle  rough 
— ez  wimmin  do — but  she'll  come  round."  Secretly  the 
Old  Man  trusted  to  the  exaltation  of  liquor  and  the  power 
of  courageous  example  to  sustain  him  in  such  an  emergency. 

As  yet,  Dick  Bullen,  the  oracle  and  leader  of  Simpson's 
Bar,  had  not  spoken.  He  now  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips. 
"  Old  Man,  how's  that  yer  Johnny  gettin'  on  ?  Seems  to 
me  he  didn't  look  so  peart  last  time  I  seed  him  on  the  bluff 


Came  to  Simpson's  Bar.  7 

heavin'  rocks  at  Chinamen.  Didn't  seem  to  take  much 
interest  in  it.  Thar  was  a  gang  of  'em  by  yar  yesterday — 
drownded  out  up  the  river — and  I  kinder  thought  o'  Johnny, 
and  how  he'd  miss  'em  !  Maybe  now,  we'd  be  in  the  way 
ef  he  wus  sick  ?  " 

The  father,  evidently  touched  not  only  by  this  pathetic 
picture  of  Johnny's  deprivation,  but  by  the  considerate 
delicacy  of  the  speaker,  hastened  to  assure  him  that  Johnny 
was  better  and  that  a  "little  fun  might  'liven  him  up.' 
Whereupon  Dick  arose,  shook  himself,  and  saying,  "I'm 
ready.  Lead  the  way,  Old  Man  :  here  goes,"  himself  led 
the  way  with  a  leap,  a  characteristic  howl,  and  darted  out 
into  the  night.  As  he  passed  through  the  outer  room  he 
caught  up  a  blazing  brand  from  the  hearth.  The  action 
was  repeated  by  the  rest  of  the  party,  closely  following  and 
elbowing  each  other,  and  before  the  astonished  proprietor 
of  Thompson's  grocery  was  aware  of  the  intention  of  his 
guests,  the  room  was  deserted. 

The  night  was  pitchy  dark.  In  the  first  gust  of  wind 
their  temporary  torches  were  extinguished,  and  only  the  red 
brands  dancing  and  flitting  in  the  gloom  like  drunken 
will-o'-the-wisps  indicated  their  whereabouts.  Their  way 
led  up  Pine-Tree  Canon,  at  the  head  of  which  a  broad,  low, 
bark-thatched  cabin  burrowed  in  the  mountain-side.  It  was 
the  home  of  the  Old  Man,  and  the  entrance  to  the  tunnel 
in  which  h:,  worked  when  he  worked  at  all.  Here  the 
crowd  paused  for  a  moment,  out  of  delicate  deference  to 
their  host,  who  came  up  panting  in  the  rear. 

"  PVaps  ye'd  better  hold  on  a  second  out  yer,  whilst  I 
g3  in  and  see  that  things  is  all  right,"  said  the  Old  Man, 
with  an  indifference  he  was  far  from  feeling.  The  sugges- 
tion was  graciously  accepted,  the  door  opened  and  closed  on 
the  host,  and  the  crowd,  leaning  their  backs  against  the 
wall  and  cowering  under  the  eaves,  waited  and  listened. 


8  How  Santa  Claus 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  no  sound  but  the  dripping 
of  water  from  the  eaves,  and  the  stir  and  rustle  of  wrestling 
boughs  above  them.  Then  the  men  became  uneasy,  and 
whispered  suggestion  and  suspicion  passed  from  the  one  to 
the  other.  "  Reckon  she's  caved  in  his  head  the  first  lick  ! " 
"  Decoyed  him  inter  the  tunnel  and  barred  him  up,  likely." 
"  Got  him  down  and  sittin'  on  him."  "  Prob'ly  biling 
suthin'  to  heave  on  us  :  stand  clear  the  door,  boys  ! "  For 
just  then  the  latch  clicked,  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  a 
voice  said,  "Come  in  out  o'  the  wet." 

The  voice  was  neither  that  of  the  Old  Man  nor  of  his  wife. 
It  was  the  voice  of  a  small  boy,  its  weak  treble  broken  by 
that  preternatural  hoarseness  which  only  vagabondage  and 
the  habit  of  premature  self-assertion  can  give.  It  was  the 
face  of  a  small  boy  that  looked  up  at  theirs, — a  face  that 
might  have  been  pretty,  and  even  refined,  but  that  it  was 
darkened  by  evil  knowledge  from  within,  and  dirt  and  hard 
experience  from  without.  He  had  a  blanket  around  his 
shoulders,  and  had  evidently  just  risen  from  his  bed.  "  Come 
in,"  he  repeated,  "  and  don'f  make  no  noise.  The  Old 
Man's  in  there  talking  to  mar,"  he  continued,  pointing  to 
an  adjacent  room  which  seemed  to  be  a  kitchen,  from  which 
the  Old  Man's  voice  came  in  deprecating  accents.  "  Let 
me  be,"  he  added  querulously,  to  Dick  Bullen,  who  had 
caught  him  up,  blanket  and  all,  and  was  affecting  to  toss 
him  into  the  fire,  "let  go  o'  me,  you  d — d  old  fool,  d'ye 
hear?" 

Thus  adjured,  Dick  Bullen  lowered  Johnny  to  the 
ground  with  a  smothered  laugh,  while  the  men,  entering 
quietly,  ranged  themselves  around  a  long  table  of  rough 
boards  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  room.  Johnny 
then  gravely  proceeded  to  a  cupboard  and  brought  out 
several  articles,  which  he  deposited  on  the  table.  "Thar's 
whisky.  And  crackers.  And  red  herons.  And  cheese." 


Came  to  Simpsons  Bar.  9 

He  took  a  bite  of  the  latter  on  his  way  to  the  table. 
"And  sugar."  He  scooped  up  a  mouthful  en  route  with 
a  small  and  very  dirty  hand.  "And  terbacker.  Thar's 
dried  appils  too  on  the  shelf,  but  I  don't  admire  'em. 
Appils  is  swellin'.  Thar,"  he  concluded,  "now  wade  in, 
and  don't  be  afeard.  /  don't  mind  the  old  woman.  She 
don't  b'long  to  me.  Slong." 

He  had  stepped  to  the  threshold  of  a  small  room, 
scarcely  larger  than  a  closet,  partitioned  off  from  the  main 
apartment,  and  holding  in  its  dim  recess  a  small  bed.  He 
stood  there  a  moment  looking  at  the  company,  his  bare  feet 
peeping  from  the  blanket,  and  nodded. 

"  Hello,  Johnny !  You  ain't  goin'  to  turn  in  agin,  are 
ye  ?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Yes,  I  are,"  responded  Johnny  decidedly. 

"Why,  wot's  up,  old  fellow?" 

"I'm  sick." 

"How  sick?" 

"  I've  got  a  fevier.  And  childblains.  And  roomatiz," 
returned  Johnny,  and  vanished  within.  After  a  moment's 
pause,  he  added  in  the  dark,  apparently  from  under  the 
bedclothes,— "And  biles  !" 

There  was  an  embarrassing  silence.  The  men  looked 
at  each  other  and  at  the  fire.  Even  with  the  appetising 
banquet  before  them,  it  seemed  as  if  they  might  again  fall 
into  the  despondency  of  Thompson's  grocery,  when  the 
voice  of  the  Old  Man,  incautiously  lifted,  came  deprecat- 
ingly  from  the  kitchen. 

"Certainly!  Thet's  so.  In  course  they  is.  A  gang 
c:  lazy,  drunken  loafers,  and  that  ar  Dick  Bullen's  the 
ornariest  of  all.  Didn't  hev  no  more  sdbe  than  to  come 
round  yar  with  sickness  in  the  house  and  no  provision. 
Thet's  what  I  said  :  'Bullen,'  sez  I,  'it's  crazy  drunk  you 
are,  or  a  fool,'  sez  I,  c  to  think  o'  such  a  thing.'  '  Staples,'  I 


io  How  Santa  Claus 

sez,  '  be  you  a  man,  Staples,  and  '  spect  to  raise  h — 11  under 
my  roof  and  invalids  lyin'  round  ?  '  But  they  would  come, 
— they  would.  Thet's  wot  you  must  '  spect  o'  such  trash 
as  lays  round  the  Bar." 

A  burst  of  laughter  from  the  men  followed  this  unfortu- 
nate exposure.  Whether  it  was  overheard  in  the  kitchen, 
or  whether  the  Old  Man's  irate  companion  had  just  then 
exhausted  all  other  modes  of  expressing  her  contemptuous 
indignation,  I  cannot  say,  but  a  back  door  was  suddenly 
slammed  with  great  violence.  A  moment  later  and  the 
Old  Man  reappeared,  haply  unconscious  of  the  cause  of 
the  late  hilarious  outburst,  and  smiled  blandly. 

"  The  old  woman  thought  she'd  jest  run  over  to  Mrs. 
MacFadden's  for  a  sociable  call, "  he  explained  with 
jaunty  indifference  as  he  took  a  seat  at  the  board. 

Oddly  enough  it  needed  this  untoward  incident  to 
relieve  the  embarrassment  that  was  beginning  to  be  felt 
by  the  party,  and  their  natural  audacity  returned  with  their 
host.  I  do  not  propose  to  record  the  convivialities  of  that 
evening.  The  inquisitive  reader  will  accept  the  statement 
that  the  conversation  was  characterised  by  the  same 
intellectual  exaltation,  the  same  cautious  reverence,  the 
same  fastidious  delicacy,  the  same  rhetorical  precision,  and 
the  same  logical  and  coherent  discourse  somewhat  later  in 
the  evening,  which  distinguish  similar  gatherings  of  the 
masculine  sex  in  more  civilised  localities  and  under  more 
favourable  auspices.  No  glasses  were  broken  in  the  absence 
of  any ;  no  liquor  was  uselessly  spilt  on  the  floor  or  table  in 
the  scarcity  of  that  article. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  the  festivities  were  inter- 
rupted. "  Hush,"  said  Dick  Bullen,  holding  up  his  hand. 
It  was  the  querulous  voice  of  Johnny  from  his  adjacent 
closet :  "  O  dad  !  " 

The  Old  Man  arose  hurriedly  and  disappeared  in  the 


Came  to  Simpson 's  Bar.  1 1 

closet.  Presently  he  reappeared.  "  His  rheumatiz  is  com- 
ing on  agin  bad,"  he  explained,  "  and  he  wants  rubbin'." 
He  lifted  the  demijohn  of  whisky  from  the  table  and 
shook  it.  It  was  empty.  Dick  Bullen  put  down  his  tin  cup 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh.  So  did  the  others.  The  Old 
Man  examined  their  contents  and  said  hopefully,  "  I 
reckon  that's  enough  ;  he  don't  need  much.  You  hold  on 
all  o'  you  for  a  spell,  and  I'll  be  back ; "  and  vanished  in 
the  closet  with  an  old  flannel  shirt  and  the  whisky.  The 
door  closed  but  imperfectly,  and  the  following  dialogue  was 
distinctly  audible  : 

"  Now,  sonny,  whar  does  she  ache  worst  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  over  yar  and  sometimes  under  yer ;  but  it's 
most  powerful  from  yer  to  yer.  Rub  yer,  dad." 

A  silence  seemed  to  indicate  a  brisk  rubbing.  Then 
Johnny : 

"  Hevin'  a  good  time  out  yer,  dad  ?  " 

"Yes,  sonny." 

"To-morrer's  Chrismiss, — ain't  it?" 

"  Yes,  sonny.     How  does  she  feel  now  ?  " 

"Better.  Rub  a  little  furder  down.  Wot's  Chrismiss, 
anyway  ?  Wot's  it  all  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  a  day." 

This  exhaustive  definition  was  apparently  satisfactory,  for 
there  was  a  silent  interval  of  rubbing.  Presently  Johnny 
again : 

"  Mar  sez  that  everywhere  else  but  yer  everybody  gives 
things  to  everybody  Chrismiss,  and  then  she  jist  waded  inter 
you.  She  sez  thar's  a  man  they  call  Sandy  Claws,  not  a 
white  man,  you  know,  but  a  kind  o'  Chinemin,  comes  down 
the  chimbley  night  afore  Chrismiss  and  gives  things  to 
chillern, — boys  like  me.  Puts  'em  in  their  butes  !  Thet's 
what  she  tried  to  play  upon  me.  Easy  now,  pop,  whar  are 
you  rubbin'  to, — thet's  a  mile  from  the  place.  She  jest 


12  How  Santa  Claus 

made  that  up,  didn't  she,  jest  to  aggrewate  me  and  you  ? 
Don't  rub  thar.  .  .  .  Why,  dad  ! " 

In  the  great  quiet  that  seemed  to  have  fallen  upon  the 
house  the  sigh  of  the  near  pines  and  the  drip  of  leaves  with- 
out was  very  distinct.  Johnny's  voice,  too,  was  lowered  as 
he  went  on,  "  Don't  you  take  on  now,  for  I'm  gettin'  all 
right  fast.  Wot's  the  boys  doin'  out  thar? " 

The  Old  Man  partly  opened  the  door  and  peered  through. 
His  guests  were  sitting  there  sociably  enough,  and  there 
were  a  few  silver  coins  and  a  lean  buckskin  purse  on  the 
table.  "  Bettin'  on  suthin' — some  little  game  or  'nother. 
They're  all  right,"  he  replied  to  Johnny,  and  recommenced 
his  rubbing. 

"I'd  like  to  take  a  hand  and  win  some  money,"  said 
Johnny  reflectively  after  a  pause. 

The  Old  Man  glibly  repeated  what  was  evidently  a 
familiar  formula,  that  if  Johnny  would  wait  until  he  struck 
it  rich  in  the  tunnel  he'd  have  lots  of  money,  &c.,  &c. 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny,  "but  you  don't.  And  whether  you 
strike  it  or  I  win  it,  it's  about  the  same.  It's  all  luck.  But 
it's  mighty  cur'o's  about  Chrismiss — ain't  it?  Why  do  they 
call  it  Chrismiss  ?  " 

Perhaps  from  some  instinctive  deference  to  the  overhear- 
ing of  his  guests,  or  from  some  vague  sense  of  incongruity, 
the  Old  Man's  reply  was  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible  beyond 
the  room. 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny,  with  some  slight  abatement  of 
interest,  "  I've  heerd  o'  him  before.  Thar,  that'll  do,  dad.  I 
don't  ache  near  so  bad  as  I  did.  Now  wrap  me  tight  in  this 
yer  blanket.  So.  Now,"  he  added  in  a  muffled  whisper, 
"sit  down  yer  by  me  till  I  go  asleep."  To  assure  himself 
of  obedience,  he  disengaged  one  hand  from  the  blanket 
and,  grasping  his  father's  sleeve,  again  composed  himself 
to  rest. 


Came  to  Simpsoris  Bar.  1 3 

For  some  moments  the  Old  Man  waited  patiently.  Then 
the  unwonted  stillness  of  the  house  excited  his  curiosity, 
and  without  moving  from  the  bed  he  cautiously  opened  the 
door  with  his  disengaged  hand,  and  looked  into  the  main 
room.  To  his  infinite  surprise  it  was  dark  and  deserted. 
But  even  then  a  smouldering  log  on  the  hearth  broke,  and 
by  the  upspringing  blaze  he  saw  the  figure  of  Dick  Bullen 
sitting  by  the  dying  embers. 

"Hello!" 

Dick  started,  rose,  and  came  somewhat  unsteadily  toward 
him. 

"  Whar's  the  boys  ?  "  said  the  Old  Man. 

"  Gone  up  the  canon  on  a  little  pasear.  They're  coming 
back  for  me  in  a  minit.  I'm  waitin'  round  for  'em.  What 
are  you  starin'  at,  Old  Man?"  he  added  with  a  forced 
laugh;  "do  you  think  I'm  drunk?" 

The  Old  Man  might  have  been  pardoned  the  supposition, 
for  Dick's  eyes  were  humid  and  his  face  flushed.  He 
loitered  and  lounged  back  to  the  chimney,  yawned,  shook 
himself,  buttoned  up  his  coat  and  laughed.  "  Liquor  ain't 
so  plenty  as  that,  Old  Man.  Now  don't  you  git  up,"  he 
continued,  as  the  Old  Man  made  a  movement  to  release  his 
sleeve  from  Johnny's  hand.  "  Don't  you  mind  manners. 
Sit  jest  whar  you  be ;  I'm  goin'  in  a  jiffy.  Thar,  that's  them 
now." 

There  was  a  low  tap  at  the  door.  Dick  Bullen  opened 
it  quickly,  nodded  "  Good  night "  to  his  host,  and  disap- 
peared. The  Old  Man  would  have  followed  him  but  for 
the  hand  that  still  unconsciously  grasped  his  sleeve.  He 
could  have  easily  disengaged  it :  it  was  small,  weak,  and 
emaciated.  But  perhaps  because  it  was  small,  weak,  and 
emaciated  he  changed  his  mind,  and,  drawing  his  chair 
closer  to  the  bed,  rested  his  head  upon  it.  In  this  defence- 
less attitude  the  potency  of  his  earlier  potations  surprised 


14  How  Santa  Claus 

him.  The  room  flickered  and  faded  before  his  eyes,  reap- 
peared, faded  again,  went  out,  and  left  him — asleep. 

Meantime  Dick  Bullen,  closing  the  door,  confronted  his 
companions.  "  Are  you  ready  ?  "  said  Staples.  "  Ready," 
said  Dick  ;  "  what's  the  time  ? "  "  Past  twelve,"  was  the 
reply;  "can  you  make  it? — it's  nigh  on  fifty  miles,  the 
round  trip  hither  and  yon."  "I  reckon,"  returned  Dick 
shortly.  "  Whar's  the  mare?"  "Bill  and  Jack's  holdin' 
her  at  the  crossin'."  "Let  'em  hold  on  a  minit  longer," 
said  Dick. 

He  turned  and  re-entered  the  house  softly.  By  the  light 
of  the  guttering  candle  and  dying  fire  he  saw  that  the  door 
of  the  little  room  was  open.  He  stepped  toward  it  on  tip- 
toe and  looked  in.  The  Old  Man  had  fallen  back  in  his 
chair,  snoring,  his  helpless  feet  thrust  out  in  a  line  with  his 
collapsed  shoulders,  and  his  hat  pulled  over  his  eyes. 
Beside  him,  on  a  narrow  wooden  bedstead,  lay  Johnny, 
muffled  tightly  in  a  blanket  that  hid  all  save  a  strip  of 
forehead  and  a  few  curls  damp  with  perspiration.  Dick 
Bullen  made  a  step  forward,  hesitated,  and  glanced  over  his 
shoulder  into  the  deserted  room.  Everything  was  quiet. 
With  a  sudden  resolution  he  parted  his  huge  moustaches 
with  both  hands  and  stooped  over  the  sleeping  boy.  But 
even  a.0  he  did  so  a  mischievous  blast,  lying  in  wait,  swooped 
down  the  chimney,  rekindled  the  hearth,  and  lit  up  the 
room  with  a  shameless  glow  from  which  Dick  fled  in  bash- 
ful terror. 

His  companions  were  already  waiting  for  him  at  the 
crossing.  Two  of  them  were  struggling  in  the  darkness 
with  some  strange  misshapen  bulk,  which  as  Dick  came 
nearer  took  the  semblance  of  a  great  yellow  horse. 

It  was  the  mare.  She  was  not  a  pretty  picture.  From 
her  Roman  nose  to  her  rising  haunches,  from  her  arched 
spine  hidden  by  the  stiff  machillas  of  a  Mexican  saddle,  to 


Came  to  Simpsons  Bar.  15 

her  thick,  straight,  bony  legs,  there  was  not  a  line  of  equine 
grace.  In  her  half-blind  but  wholly  vicious  white  eyes,  in 
her  protruding  under-lip,  in  her  monstrous  colour,  there 
was  nothing  but  ugliness  and  vice. 

"  Now  then,"  said  Staples,  "  stand  cPar  of  her  heels,  boySj 
and  up  with  you,  Don't  miss  your  first  holt  of  her  mane, 
and  mind  ye  get  your  off  stirrup  quick.  Ready  ! " 

There  was  a  leap,  a  scrambling  struggle,  a  bound,  a  wild 
retreat  of  the  crowd,  a  circle  of  flying  hoofs,  two  springless 
leaps  that  jarred  the  earth,  a  rapid  play  and  jingle  of  spurs, 
a  plunge,  and  then  the  voice  of  Dick  somewhere  in  the 
darkness.  "  All  right !  " 

"  Don't  take  the  lower  road  back  onless  you're  hard 
pushed  for  time  !  Don't  hold  her  in  down  hill.  We'll  be 
at  the  ford  at  five.  G'lang  !  Hoopa  !  Mula  !  GO  ! " 

A  splash,  a  spark  struck  from  the  ledge  in  the  road,  a 
clatter  in  the  rocky  cut  beyond,  and  Dick  was  gone. 

Sing,  O  Muse,  the  ride  of  Richard  Bullen  !  Sing,  O 
Muse,  of  chivalrous  men  !  the  sacred  quest,  the  doughty 
deeds,  the  battery  of  low  churls,  the  fearsome  ride  and  grue- 
some perils  of  the  Flower  of  Simpson's  Bar  !  Alack  !  she 
is  dainty,  this  Muse !  She  will  have  none  of  this  bucking 
brute  and  swaggering,  ragged  rider,  and  I  must  fain  follow 
him  in  prose,  afoot ! 

It  was  one  o'clock,  and  yet  he  had  only  gained  Rattle- 
snake Hill.  For  in  that  time  Jovita  had  rehearsed  to  him 
all  her  imperfections  and  practised  all  her  vices.  Thrice 
had  she  stumbled.  Twice  had  she  thrown  up  her  Roman 
nose  in  a  straight  line  with  the  reins,  and,  resisting  bit  and 
spur,  struck  out  madly  across  country.  Twice  had  she 
reared,  and,  rearing,  fallen  backward ;  and  twice  had  the 
agile  Dick,  unharmed,  regained  his  seat  before  she  found 
her  vicious  legs  again.  And  a  mile  beyond  them,  at  the 


1 6  How  Santa  Claus 

foot  of  a  long  hill,  was  Rattlesnake  Creek.  Dick  knew  that 
here  was  the  crucial  test  of  his  ability  to  perform  his  entei- 
prise,  set  his  teeth  grimly,  put  his  knees  well  into  her 
flanks,  and  changed  his  defensive  tactics  to  brisk  aggression. 
Bullied  and  maddened,  Jovita  began  the  descent  of  the  hill. 
Here  the  artful  Richard  pretended  to  hold  her  in  with 
ostentatious  objurgation  and  well-feigned  cries  of  alarm. 
It  is  unnecessary  to  add  that  Jovita  instantly  ran  away. 
Nor  need  I  state  the  time  made  in  the  descent ;  it  is  written 
in  the  chronicles  of  Simpson's  Bar.  Enough  that  in  another 
moment,  as  it  seemed  to  Dick,  she  was  splashing  on 
the  overflowed  banks  of  Rattlesnake  Creek.  As  Dick 
expected,  the  momentum  she  had  acquired  carried  her 
beyond  the  point  of  balking,  and,  holding  her  well  together 
for  a  mighty  leap,  they  dashed  into  the  middle  of  the 
swiftly  flowing  current.  A  few  moments  of  kicking,  wad- 
ing, and  swimming,  and  Dick  drew  a  long  breath  on  the 
opposite  bank. 

The  road  from  Rattlesnake  Creek  to  Red  Mountain  was 
tolerably  level.  Either  the  plunge  in  Rattlesnake  Creek 
had  dampened  her  baleful  fire,  or  the  art  which  led  to  it 
had  shown  her  the  superior  wickedness  of  her  rider,  for 
Jovita  no  longer  wasted  her  surplus  energy  in  wanton  con- 
ceits. Once  she  bucked,  but  it  was  from  force  of  habit ; 
once  she  shied,  but  it  was  from  a  new,  freshly-painted  meet- 
ing-house at  the  crossing  of  the  county  road.  Hollows, 
ditches,  gravelly  deposits,  patches  of  freshly-springing  grasses, 
flew  from  beneath  her  rattling  hoofs.  She  began  to  smell 
unpleasantly,  once  or  twice  she  coughed  slightly,  but  there 
was  no  abatement  of  her  strength  or  speed.  By  two  o'clock 
he  had  passed  Red  Mountain  and  begun  the  descent  to 
the  plain.  Ten  minutes  later  the  driver  of  the  fast  Pioneer 
coach  was  overtaken  and  passed  by  a  "  man  on  a  Pinto 
boss," — an  event  sufficiently  notable  for  remark.  At  half- 


Came  to  Simpsons  Bar.  1 7 

past  two  Dick  rose  in  his  stirrups  with  a  great  shout  Stars 
were  glittering  through  the  rifted  clouds,  and  beyond  him, 
out  of  the  plain,  rose  two  spires,  a  flagstaff,  and  a  straggling 
line  of  black  objects.  Dick  jingled  his  spurs  and  swung 
his  riata,  Jo  vita  bounded  forward,  and  in  another  moment 
they  swept  into  Tuttleville,  and  drew  up  before  the  wooden 
piazza  of  "  The  Hotel  of  All  Nations." 

What  transpired  that  night  at  Tuttleville  is  not  strictly  a 
part  of  this  record.  Briefly  I  may  state,  however,  that  after 
Jovita  had  been  handed  over  to  a  sleepy  ostler,  whom  she 
at  once  kicked  into  unpleasant  consciousness,  Dick  sallied 
out  with  the  barkeeper  for  a  tour  of  the  sleeping  town. 
Lights  still  gleamed  from  a  few  saloons  and  gambling-houses; 
but,  avoiding  these,  they  stopped  before  several  closed  shops, 
and  by  persistent  tapping  and  judicious  outcry  roused  the 
proprietors  from  their  beds,  and  made  them  unbar  the  doors 
of  their  magazines  and  expose  their  wares.  Sometimes  they 
were  met  by  curses,  but  oftener  by  interest  and  some  con- 
cern in  their  needs,  and  the  interview  was  invariably  con- 
cluded by  a  drink.  It  was  three  o'clock  before  this  pleasan- 
try was  given  over,  and  with  a  small  waterproof  bag  of 
indiarubber  strapped  on  his  shoulders  Dick  returned  to 
the  hotel.  But  here  he  was  waylaid  by  Beauty, — Beauty 
opulent  in  charms,  affluent  in  dress,  persuasive  in  speech, 
and  Spanish  in  accent !  In  vain. she  repeated  the  invitation 
in  "Excelsior,"  happily  scorned  by  all  Alpine-climbing 
youth,  and  rejected  by  this  child  of  the  Sierras, — a  rejection 
softened  in  this  instance  by  a  laugh  and  his  last  gold  coin. 
And  then  he  sprang  to  the  saddle  and  dashed  down  the 
lonely  street  and  out  into  the  lonelier  plain,  where  presently 
the  lights,  the  black  line  of  houses,  the  spires,  and  the  flag- 
staff sank  into  the  earth  behind  him  again  and  were  lost  in 
the  distance. 

The  storm  had  cleared  away,  the  air  was  brisk  and  cold, 

VOL.  IIL  B 


1 8  How  Santa  Claus 

the  outlines  of  adjacent  landmarks  were  distinct,  but  it  was 
half-past  four  before  Dick  reached  the  meeting-house  and 
the  crossing  of  the  county  road.  To  avoid  the  rising  grade 
he  had  taken  a  longer  and  more  circuitous  road,  in  whose 
viscid  mud  Jovita  sank  fetlock  deep  at  every  bound  It 
was  a  poor  preparation  for  a  steady  ascent  of  five  miles 
more ;  but  Jovita,  gathering  her  legs  under  her,  took  it 
with  her  usual  blind,  unreasoning  fury,  and  a  half-hour  later 
reached  the  long  level  that  led  to  Rattlesnake  Creek. 
Another  half-hour  would  bring  him  to  the  creek.  He  threw 
the  reins  lightly  upon  the  neck  of  the  mare,  chirruped  to 
her,  and  began  to  sing. 

Suddenly  Jovita  shied  with  a  bound  that  would  have 
unseated  a  less  practised  rider.  Hanging  to  her  rein  was  a 
figure  that  had  leaped  from  the  bank,  and  at  the  same  time 
from  the  road  before  her  arose  a  shadowy  horse  and  rider. 
"  Throw  up  your  hands,"  commanded  the  second  apparition, 
with  an  oath. 

Dick  felt  the  mare  tremble,  quiver,  and  apparently  sink 
under  him.  He  knew  what  it  meant  and  was  prepared. 

"  Stand  aside,  Jack  Simpson.  I  know  you,  you  d — d 
thief !  Let  me  pass,  or  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  Jovita  rose  straight  in 
the  air  with  a  terrific  bound,  throwing  the  figure  from  her 
bit  with  a  single  shake  of  her  vicious  head,  and  charged 
with  deadly  malevolence  down  on  the  impediment  before 
her.  An  oath,  a  pistol-shot,  horse  and  highwayman  rolled 
over  in  the  road,  and  the  next  moment  Jovita  was  a  hundred 
yards  away.  But  the  good  right  arm  of  her  rider,  shattered 
by  a  bullet,  dropped  helplessly  at  his  side. 

Without  slacking  his  speed  he  shifted  the  reins  to  his  left 
hand.  But  a  few  moments  later  he  was  obliged  to  halt  and 
tighten  the  saddle-girths  that  had  slipped  in  the  onset. 
This  in  his  crippled  condition  took  some  time.  He  had 


Came  to  Simpsorts  Bar.  19 

no  fear  of  pursuit,  but  looking  up  he  saw  that  the  eastern 
stars  were  already  paling,  and  that  the  distant  peaks  had 
lost  their  ghostly  whiteness,  and  now  stood  out  blackly 
against  a  lighter  sky.  Day  was  upon  him.  Then  com- 
pletely absorbed  in  a  single  idea,  he  forgot  the  pain  of  his 
wound,  and  mounting  again  dashed  on  toward  Rattlesnake 
Creek.  But  now  Jovita's  breath  came  broken  by  gasps, 
Dick  reeled  in  his  saddle,  and  brighter  and  brighter  grew 
the  sky. 

Ride,  Richard  ;  run,  Jovita  ;  linger,  O  day  ! 

For  the  last  few  rods  there  was  a  roaring  in  his  ears. 
Was  it  exhaustion  from  loss  of  blood,  or  what  ?  He  was 
dazed  and  giddy  as  he  swept  down  the  hill,  and  did  not 
recognise  his  surroundings.  Had  he  taken  the  wrong  road, 
or  was  this  Rattlesnake  Creek  ? 

It  was.  But  the  brawling  creek  he  had  swam  a  few  hours 
before  had  risen,  more  than  doubled  its  volume,  and  now 
rolled  a  swift  and  resistless  river  between  him  and  Rattle- 
snake Hill.  For  the  first  time  that  night  Richard's  heart 
sank  within  him.  The  river,  the  mountain,  the  quickening 
east,  swam  before  his  eyes.  He  shut  them  to  recover  his 
self-control.  In  that  brief  interval,  by  some  fantastic  mental 
process,  the  little  room  at  Simpson's  Bar  and  the  figures  of 
the  sleeping  father  and  son  rose  upon  him.  He  opened  his 
eyes  wildly,  cast  off  his  coat,  pistol,  boots,  and  saddle,  bound 
his  precious  pack  tightly  to  his  shoulders,  grasped  the  bare 
flanks  of  Jovita  with  his  bared  knees,  and  with  a  shout 
dashed  into  the  yellow  water.  A  cry  rose  from  the  opposite 
bank  as  the  head  of  a  man  and  horse  struggled  for  a  few 
moments  against  the  battling  current,  and  then  were  swept 
away  amidst  uprooted  trees  and  whirling  driftwood. 

The  Old  Man  started  and  woke.  The  fire  on  the  hearth 
was  dead,  the  candle  in  the  outer  room  flickering  in  its 


2O  How  Santa  Claus  Came  to  Simpsons  Bar. 

socket,  and  somebody  was  rapping  at  the  door.  He  opened 
it,  but  fell  back  with  a  cry  before  the  dripping,  half-naked 
figure  that  reeled  against  the  doorpost. 

"Dick?"- 

"  Hush  !     Is  he  awake  yet  ?  " 

''No;  but,  Dick?" 

"  Dry  up,  you  old  fool !  Get  me  some  whisky,  quick  !  " 
The  Old  Man  flew  and  returned  with — an  empty  bottle ! 
Dick  would  have  sworn,  but  his  strength  was  not  equal  to 
the  occasion.  He  staggered,  caught  at  the  handle  of  the 
door,  and  motioned  to  the  Old  Man. 

"Thar's  suthin'  in  rny  pack  yer  for  Johnny,  Take  it  off. 
I  can't." 

The  Old  Man  unstrapped  the  pack,  and  laid  it  before 
the  exhausted  man. 

"  Open  it,  quick." 

He  did  so  with  trembling  fingers.  It  contained  only  a 
few  poor  toys, — cheap  and  barbaric  enough,  goodness 
knows,  but  bright  with  paint  and  tinsel.  One  of  them  was 
broken ;  another,  I  fear,  was  irretrievably  ruined  by  water, 
and  on  the  third — ah  me !  there  was  a  cruel  spot. 

"It  don't  look  like  much,  that's  a  fact,"  said  Dick  rue- 
fully. .  .  .  "But  it's  the  best  we  could  do.  ...  Take  'em, 
Old  Man,  and  put  'em  in  his  stocking,  and  tell  him — tell 

him,  you  know — hold  me,  Old  Man  " The  Old  Man 

caught  at  his  sinking  figure.  "  Tell  him,"  said  Dick,  with 
a  weak  little  laugh, — "tell  him  Sandy  Claus  has  come." 

And  even  so,  bedraggled,  ragged,  unshaven  and  unshorn, 
with  one  arm  hanging  helplessly  at  his  side,  Santa  Claus  came 
to  Simpson's  Bar  and  fell  fainting  on  the  first  threshold. 
The  Christmas  dawn  came  slowly  after,  touching  the  re- 
moter peaks  with  the  rosy  warmth  of  ineffable  love.  And  it 
looked  so  tenderly  on  Simpson's  Bar  that  the  whole  moun- 
tain, as  if  caught  in  a  generous  action,  blushed  to  the  skies. 


PART  I.— WEST. 

THE  sun  was  rising  in  the  foothills.  But  for  an  hour  the 
black  mass  of  Sierra  eastward  of  Angel's  had  been  outlined 
with  fire,  and  the  conventional  morning  had  come  two 
hours  before  with  the  down  coach  from  Placerville.  The 
dry,  cold,  dewless  California  night  still  lingered  in  the  long 
canons  and  folded  skirts  of  Table  Mountain.  Even  on  the 
mountain  road  the  air  was  still  sharp,  and  that  urgent 
necessity  for  something  to  keep  out  the  chill,  which  sent 
the  barkeeper  sleepily  among  his  bottles  and  wine-glasses 
at  the  station,  obtained  all  along  the  road. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  said  that  the  first  stir  of  life  was  in 
the  bar-rooms.  A  few  birds  twittered  in  the  sycamores  at 
the  roadside,  but  long  before  that  glasses  had  clicked  and 
bottles  gurgled  in  the  saloon  of  the  Mansion  House.  This 
was  still  lit  by  a  dissipated-looking  hanging-lamp,  which 
was  evidently  the  worse  for  having  been  up  all  night,  and 
bore  a  singular  resemblance  to  a  faded  reveller  of  Angel's, 
who  even  then  sputtered  and  flickered  in  his  socket  in  an 
armchair  below  it, — a  resemblance  so  plain  that  when  the 
first  level  sunbeam  pierced  the  window-pane,  the  barkeeper, 
moved  by  a  sentiment  of  consistency  and  compassion,  put 
them  both  out  together. 

Then  the  sun  came  up  haughtily.  When  it  had  passed 
the  eastern  ridge  it  began,  after  its  habit,  to  lord  it  over 


22  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

Angel's,  sending  the  thermometer  up  twenty  degrees  in  as 
many  minutes,  driving  the  mules  to  the  sparse  shade  of 
corrals  and  fences,  making  the  red  dust  incandescent,  and 
renewing  its  old  imperious  aggression  on  the  spiked  bosses 
of  the  convex  shield  of  pines  that  defended  Table  Mountain. 
Thither  by  nine  o'clock  all  coolness  had  retreated,  and  the 
"  outsides "  of  the  up-stage  plunged  their  hot  faces  in  its 
aromatic  shadows  as  in  water. 

It  was  the  custom  of  the  driver  of  the  Wingdam  coach 
to  whip  up  his  horses  and  enter  Angel's  at  that  remarkable 
pace  which  the  woodcuts  in  the  hotel  bar-room  represented 
to  credulous  humanity  as  the  usual  rate  of  speed  of  that 
conveyance.  At  such  times  the  habitual  expression  of  dis- 
dainful reticence  and  lazy  official  severity  which  he  wore  on 
the  box  became  intensified  as  the  loungers  gathered  about 
the  vehicle,  and  only  the  boldest  ventured  to  address  him. 
It  was  the  Hon.  Judge  Beeswinger,  Member  of  Assembly, 
who  to-day  presumed,  perhaps  rashly,  on  the  strength  of 
his  official  position. 

"  Any  political  news  from  below,  Bill  ?  "  he  asked,  as  the 
latter  slowly  descended  from  his  lofty  perch,  without,  how- 
ever, any  perceptible  coming  down  of  mien  or  manner. 

"Not  much,"  said  Bill  with  deliberate  gravity.  "The 
President  o'  the  United  States  hezn't  bin  hisself  sens  you 
refoosed  that  seat  in  the  Cabinet.  The  ginral  feelin'  in 
perlitical  circles  is  one  o'  regret." 

Irony,  even  of  this  outrageous  quality,  was  too  common 
in  Angel's  to  excite  either  a  smile  or  a  frown.  Bill  slowly 
entered  the  bar-room  during  a  dry,  dead  silence,  in  which 
only  a  faint  spirit  of  emulation  survived. 

"Ye  didn't  bring  up  that  agint  o'  Rothschild's  this 
trip?"  asked  the  barkeeper  slowly,  by  way  of  vague  con- 
tribution to  the  prevailing  tone  of  conversation. 

"  No,"  responded  Bill  with  thoughtful  exactitude.     "  He 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  23 

said  he  couldn't  look  inter  that  claim  o'  Johnson's  without 
first  consultin'  the  Bank  o'  England." 

The  Mr.  Johnson  here  alluded  to  being  present  as  the 
faded  reveller  the  barkeeper  had  lately  put  out,  and  as  the 
alleged  claim  notoriously  possessed  no  attractions  whatever 
to  capitalists,  expectation  naturally  looked  to  him  for  some 
response  to  this  evident  challenge.  He  did  so  by  simply 
stating  that  he  would  "  take  sugar "  in  his,  and  by  walking 
unsteadily  towards  the  bar,  as  if  accepting  a  festive  invita- 
tion. To  the  credit  of  Bill  be  it  recorded  that  he  did  not 
attempt  to  correct  the  mistake  but  gravely  touched  glasses 
with  him,  and  after  saying  "  Here's  another  nail  in  your 
coffin," — a  cheerful  sentiment,  to  which  "  And  the  hair  all 
off  your  head,"  was  playfully  added  by  the  others, — he 
threw  off  his  liquor  with  a  single  dexterous  movement  of 
head  and  elbow,  and  stood  refreshed. 

"  Hello,  old  major ! "  said  Bill,  suddenly  setting  down 
his  glass.  "  Are  you  there  ?  " 

It  was  a  boy,  who,  becoming  bashfully  conscious  that 
this  epithet  was  addressed  to  him,  retreated  sideways  to 
the  doorway,  where  he  stood  beating  his  hat  against  the 
doorpost  with  an  assumption  of  indifference  that  his  down- 
cast but  mirthful  dark  eyes  and  reddening  cheek  scarcely 
bore  out.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  his  size,  perhaps  it  was 
to  a  certain  cherubic  outline  of  face  and  figure,  perhaps  to 
a  peculiar  trustfulness  of  expression,  that  he  did  not  look 
half  his  age,  which  was  really  fourteen. 

Everybody  in  Angel's  knew  the  boy.  Either  under  the 
venerable  title  bestowed  by  Bill,  or  as  "Tom  Islington," 
after  his  adopted  father,  his  was  a  familiar  presence  in  the 
settlement,  and  the  theme  of  much  local  criticism  and 
comment.  His  waywardness,  indolence,  and  unaccount- 
able amiability — a  quality  at  once  suspicious  and  gratuitous 
in  a  pioneer  community  like  Angel's — had  often  been  the 


24  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

subject  of  fierce  discussion.  A  large  and  reputable  majority 
believed  him  destined  for  the  gallows  ;  a  minority  not  quite 
so  reputable  enjoyed  his  presence  without  troubling  them- 
selves much  about  his  future ;  to  one  or  two  the  evil  pre- 
dictions of  the  majority  possessed  neither  novelty  nor 
terror. 

"  Anything  for  me,  Bill  ?  "  asked  the  boy  half  mechani- 
cally, with  the  air  of  repeating  some  jocular  formulary  per- 
fectly understood  by  Bill. 

"Anythin'  for  you!"  echoed  Bill,  with  an  overacted 
severity  equally  well  understood  by  Tommy, — "anythin' 
for  you  ?  No !  And  it's  my  opinion  there  won't  be  any- 
thin'  for  you  ez  long  ez  you  hang  around  bar-rooms  and 
spend  your  valooable  time  with  loafers  and  bummers.  Git ! " 

The  reproof  was  accompanied  by  a  suitable  exaggeration 
of  gesture  (Bill  had  seized  a  decanter),  before  which  the 
boy  retreated  still  good-humouredly.  Bill  followed  him  to 
the  door.  "  Bern  my  skin,  if  he  hezn't  gone  off  with  that 
bummer  Johnson,"  he  added,  as  he  looked  down  the  road. 

"  What's  he  expectin',  Bill  ?  "  asked  the  barkeeper. 

"  A  letter  from  his  aunt.  Reckon  he'll  hev  to  take  it 
out  in  expectin'.  Likely  they're  glad  to  get  shut  o'  him." 

"  He's  leadin'  a  shiftless,  idle  life  here,"  interposed  the 
Member  of  Assembly. 

"  Well,"  said  Bill,  who  never  allowed  any  one  but  him- 
self to  abuse  his  protege^  "  seein'  he  ain't  expectin'  no  offis 
from  the  hands  of  an  enlightened  constitooency,  it  is  rayther 
a  shiftless  life."  After  delivering  this  Parthian  arrow  with 
a  gratuitous  twanging  of  the  bow  to  indicate  its  offensive 
personality,  Bill  winked  at  the  barkeeper,  slowly  resumed 
a  pair  of  immense,  bulgy  buckskin  gloves,  which  gave  his 
fingers  the  appearance  of  being  painfully  sore  and  bandaged, 
strode  to  the  door  without  looking  at  anybody,  called  out, 
"  All  aboard,"  with  a  perfunctory  air  of  supreme  indifference 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  25 

whether  the  invitation  was  heeded,  remounted  his  box,  and 
drove  stolidly  away. 

Perhaps  it  was  well  that  he  did  so,  for  the  conversation 
at  once  assumed  a  disrespectful  attitude  toward  Tom  and 
his  relatives.  It  was  more  than  intimated  that  Tom's 
alleged  aunt  was  none  other  than  Tom's  real  mother,  while 
it  was  also  asserted  that  Tom's  alleged  uncle  did  not  him- 
self participate  in  this  intimate  relationship  to  the  boy  to 
an  extent  which  the  fastidious  taste  of  Angel's  deemed 
moral  and  necessary.  Popular  opinion  also  believed  that 
Islington,  the  adopted  father,  who  received  a  certain  stipend 
ostensibly  for  the  boy's  support,  retained  it  as  a  reward  for 
his  reticence  regarding  these  facts.  "  He  ain't  ruinin'  hisself 
by  wastin'  it  on  Tom,"  said  the  barkeeper,  who  possibly 
possessed  positive  knowledge  of  much  of  Islington's  dis* 
bursements.  But  at  this  point  exhausted  nature  languished 
among  some  of  the  debaters,  and  he  turned  from  the  frivo- 
lity of  conversation  to  his  severer  professional  duties. 

It  was  also  well  that  Bill's  momentary  attitude  of  didac- 
tic propriety  was  not  further  excited  by  the  subsequent 
conduct  of  his  protege.  For  by  this  time  Tom,  half  sup- 
porting the  unstable  Johnson,  who  developed  a  tendency 
to  occasionally  dash  across  the  glaring  road,  but  checked 
himself  midway  each  time,  reached  the  corral  which  adjoined 
the  Mansion  House.  At  its  farther  extremity  was  a  pump 
and  horse-trough.  Here,  without  a  word  being  spoken,  but 
evidently  in  obedience  to  some  habitual  custom,  Tom  led 
his  companion.  With  the  boy's  assistance,  Johnson  re- 
moved his  coat  and  neckcloth,  turned  back  the  collar  of 
his  shirt,  and  gravely  placed  his  head  beneath  the  pump- 
spout.  With  equal  gravity  and  deliberation,  Tom  took  his 
place  at  the  handle.  For  a  few  moments  only  the  splash- 
ing of  water  and  regular  strokes  of  the  pump  broke  the 
solemnly  ludicrous  silence.  Then  there  was  a  pause  in 


26  Mrs.  Skaggs*s  Husbands. 

which  Johnson  put  his  hands  to  his  dripping  head,  felt 
it  critically  as  if  it  belonged  to  somebody  else,  and  raised 
his  eyes  to  his  companion.  "  That  ought  to  fetch  /'/,"  said 
Tom,  in  answer  to  the  look.  "  Ef  it  don't,"  replied  Johnson 
doggedly,  with  an  air  of  relieving  himself  of  all  further 
responsibility  in  the  matter,  "  it's  got  to,  thet's  all !  " 

If  "it "referred  to  some  change  in  the  physiognomy  of 
Johnson,  "  it "  had  probably  been  "  fetched  "  by  the  process 
just  indicated.  The  head  that  went  under  the  pump  was 
large,  and  clothed  with  bushy,  uncertain-coloured  hair ;  the 
face  was  flushed,  puffy,  and  expressionless,  the  eyes  injected 
and  full.  The  head  that  came  out  from  under  the  pump 
was  of  smaller  size  and  different  shape,  the  hair  straight, 
dark,  and  sleek,  the  face  pale  and  hollow-cheeked,  the  eyes 
bright  and  restless.  In  the  haggard,  nervous  ascetic  that 
rose  from  the  horse-trough  there  was  very  little  trace  of  the 
Bacchus  that  had  bowed  there  a  moment  before.  Familiar 
as  Tom  must  have  been  with  the  spectacle,  he  could  not 
help  looking  inquiringly  at  the  trough,  as  if  expecting  to  see 
some  traces  of  the  previous  Johnson  in  its  shallow  depths. 

A  narrow  strip  of  willow,  alder,  and  buckeye — a  mere 
dusty,  ravelled  fringe  of  the  green  mantle  that  swept  the 
high  shoulders  of  Table  Mountain — lapped  the  edge  of 
the  corral.  The  silent  pair  were  quick  to  avail  themselves 
of  even  its  scant  shelter  from  the  overpowering  sun.  They 
had  not  proceeded  far,  before  Johnson,  who  was  walking 
quite  rapidly  in  advance,  suddenly  brought  himself  up,  and 
turned  to  his  companion  with  an  interrogative  "  Eh  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  speak,"  said  Tommy  quietly. 

"  Who  said  you  spoke  ? "  said  Johnson  with  a  quick 
look  of  cunning.  "In  course  you  didn't  speak,  and  I 
didn't  speak  neither.  Nobody  spoke.  Wot  makes  you 
think  you  spoke?"  he  continued,  peering  curiously  into 
Tommy's  eyes. 


Mrs.  Skaggs^s  Husbands.  27 

The  smile  which  habitually  shone  there  quickly  vanished 
as  the  boy  stepped  quietly  to  his  companion's  side,  and 
took  his  arm  without  a  word. 

"  In  course  you  didn't  speak,  Tommy,"  said  Johnson 
deprecatingly.  "  You  ain't  a  boy  to  go  for  to  play  an  ole 
soaker  like  me.  That's  wot  I  like  you  for.  Thet's  wot  I 
seed  in  you  from  the  first.  I  sez,  'Thet  'ere  boy  ain't 
going  to  play  you,  Johnson  !  You  can  go  your  whole  pile 
on  him,  when  you  can't  trust  even  a  barkeep'.  Thet's  wot 
I  said.  Eh  ?  " 

This  time  Tommy  prudently  took  no  notice  of  the 
interrogation,  and  Johnson  went  on  :  "  Ef  I  was  to  ask  you 
another  question,  you  wouldn't  go  to  play  me  neither—- 
would you,  Tommy  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Ef  I  was  to  ask  you,"  continued  Johnson,  without  heed- 
ing the  reply,  but  with  a  growing  anxiety  of  eye  and  a 
nervous  twitching  of  his  lips, — "  ef  I  was  to  ask  you,  fur 
instance,  ef  that  was  a  jackass  rabbit  that  jest  passed, — eh  ? 
— you'd  say  it  was  or  was  not,  ez  the  case  may  be.  You 
wouldn't  play  the  ole  man  on  thet  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tommy  quietly,  "  it  was  a  jackass  rabbit." 

"  Ef  I  was  to  ask  you,"  continued  Johnson,  "  ef  it  wore, 
say,  fur  instance,  a  green  hat  with  yaller  ribbons,  you 
wouldn't  play  me,  and  say  it  did,  onless  "  — he  added,  with 
intensified  cunning — "  onless  it  did?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tommy,  "  of  course  I  wouldn't ;  but  then, 
you  see,  it  did" 

"It  did?" 

"It  did  !"  repeated  Tommy  stoutly;  "a  green  hat  with 
yellow  ribbons — and — and — a  red  rosette." 

"  I  didn't  get  to  see  the  ros-ette,"  said  Johnson,  with  slow 
and  conscientious  deliberation,  yet  with  an  evident  sense  of 
relief;  "  but  that  ain't  sayin'  it  warn't  there,  you  know.  Eh?" 


28  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

Tommy  glanced  quietly  at  his  companion.  There  were 
great  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  ashen-gray  forehead,  and 
on  the  ends  of  his  lank  hair  ;  the  hand  which  twitched 
spasmodically  in  his  was  cold  and  clammy,  the  other, 
which  was  free,  had  a  vague,  purposeless,  jerky  activity,  as 
if  attached  to  some  deranged  mechanism.-  Without  any 
apparent  concern  in  these  phenomena,  Tommy  halted,  and, 
seating  himself  on  a  log,  motioned  his  companion  to  a 
place  beside  him.  Johnson  obeyed  without  a  word. 
Slight  as  was  the  act,  perhaps  no  other  incident  of  their 
singular  companionship  indicated  as  completely  the  domi- 
nance of  this  careless,  half-effeminate,  but  self-possessed  boy 
over  this  doggedly  self-willed,  abnormally  excited  man. 

"  It  ain't  the  square  thing,"  said  Johnson,  after  a  pause, 
with  a  laugh  that  was  neither  mirthful  nor  musical,  and 
frightened  away  a  lizard  that  had  been  regarding  the  pair 
with  breathless  suspense, — "it  ain't  the  square  thing  for 
jackass  rabbits  to  wear  hats,  Tommy, — is  it,  eh  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Tommy,  with  unmoved  composure,  "  some- 
times they  do  and  sometimes  they  don't.  Animals  are 
mighty  queer."  And  here  Tommy  went  off  in  an  animated, 
but,  I  regret  to  say,  utterly  untruthful  and  untrustworthy 
account  of  the  habits  of  California  fauna,  until  he  was 
interrupted  by  Johnson. 

"  And  snakes,  eh,  Tommy  ? "  said  the  man,  with  an 
abstracted  air,  gazing  intently  on  the  ground  before  him. 

"And  snakes,"  said  Tommy,  "but  they  don't  bite, — at 
least,  not  that  kind  you  see.  There  ! — don't  move,  Uncle 
Ben,  don't  move  ;  they're  gone  now.  And  it's  about  time 
you  took  your  dose." 

Johnson  had  hurriedly  risen  as  if  to  leap  upon  the  log, 
but  Tommy  had  as  quickly  caught  his  arm  with  one  hand 
while  he  drew  a  bottle  from  his  pocket  with  the  other. 
J  jhnson  paused  and  eyed  the  bottle.  "  Ef  you  say  so,  my 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  29 

boy,"  he  faltered,  as  his  fingers  closed  nervously  around  it ; 
"say  'when,'  then."  He  raised  the  bottle  to  his  lips 
and  took  a  long  draught,  the  boy  regarding  him  critically. 
"  When,"  said  Tommy  suddenly.  Johnson  started,  flushed, 
and  returned  the  bottle  quickly.  But  the  colour  that  had 
risen  to  his  cheek  stayed  there,  his  eye  grew  less  restless,  and 
as  they  moved  away  again  the  hand  that  rested  on  Tommy's 
shoulder  was  steadier. 

Their  way  lay  along  the  flank  of  Table  Mountain, — a 
wandering  trail  through  a  tangled  solitude  that  might  have 
seemed  virgin  and  unbroken  but  for  a  few  oyster-cans, 
yeast-powder  tins,  and  empty  bottles  that  had  been  appar- 
ently stranded  by  the  "  first  low  wash "  of  pioneer  waves. 
On  the  ragged  trunk  of  an  enormous  pine  hung  a  few  tufts 
of  gray  hair  caught  from  a  passing  grizzly,  but  in  strange 
juxtaposition  at  its  foot  lay  an  empty  bottle  of  incomparable 
bitters, — the  chef-d'oeuvre  of  a  hygienic  civilisation,  and 
blazoned  with  the  arms  of  an  all-healing  republic.  The 
head  of  a  rattlesnake  peered  from  a  case  that  had  contained 
tobacco,  which  was  still  brightly  placarded  with  the  high- 
coloured  effigy  of  a  popular  danseuse.  And  a  little  beyond 
this  the  soil  was  broken  and  fissured,  there  was  a  confused 
mass  of  roughly-hewn  timber,  a  straggling  line  of  sluicing,  a 
heap  of  gravel  and  dirt,  a  rude  cabin,  and  the  claim  of 
Johnson. 

Except  for  the  rudest  purposes  of  shelter  from  rain  and 
cold,  the  cabin  possessed  but  little  advantage  over  the 
simple  savagery  of  surrounding  nature.  It  had  all  the 
practical  directness  of  the  habitation  of  some  animal,  with- 
out its  comfort  or  picturesque  quality ;  the  very  birds  that 
haunted  it  for  food  must  have  felt  their  own  superiority 
as  architects.  It  was  inconceivably  dirty,  even  with  its 
scant  capacity  for  accretion ,  it  was  singularly  stale,  even 
in  its  newness  and  freshness  of  material.  Unspeakably 


3O  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

dreary  as  it  was  in  shadow,  the  sunlight  visited  it  in  a  blind, 
aching,  purposeless  way,  as  if  despairing  of  mellowing  its 
outlines  or  of  even  tanning  it  into  colour. 

The  claim  worked  by  Johnson  in  his  intervals  of  sobriety 
was  represented  by  half  a  dozen  rude  openings  in  the 
mountain-side,  with  the  heaped-up  debris  of  rock  and 
gravel  before  the  mouth  of  each.  They  gave  very  little 
evidence  of  engineering  skill  or  constructive  purpose,  or 
indeed  showed  anything  but  the  vague,  successively  aban- 
doned essays  of  their  projector.  To-day  they  served 
another  purpose,  for  as  the  sun  had  heated  the  little  cabin 
almost  to  the  point  of  combustion,  curling  up  the  long  dry 
shingles,  and  starting  aromatic  tears  from  the  green  pine 
beams,  Tommy  led  Johnson  into  one  of  the  larger  openings, 
and  with  a  sense  of  satisfaction  threw  himself  panting  upon 
its  rocky  floor.  Here  and  there  the  grateful  dampness  was 
condensed  in  quiet  pools  of  water,  or  in  a  monotonous  and 
soothing  drip  from  the  rocks  above.  Without  lay  the  staring 
sunlight — colourless,  clarified,  intense. 

For  a  few  moments  they  lay  resting  on  their  elbows  in 
blissful  contemplation  of  the  heat  they  had  escaped  "Wot 
do  you  say,"  said  Johnson  slowly,  without  looking  at  his 
companion,  but  abstractedly  addressing  himself  tc^he  land- 
scape beyond, — "  wot  do  you  say  to  two  straight  games  fur 
one  thousand  dollars?" 

"  Make  it  five  thousand,"  replied  Tommy  reflectively 
also  to  the  landscape,  "  and  I'm  in." 

"  Wot  do  I  owe  you  now  ? "  said  Johnson  after  a 
lengthened  silence. 

"One  hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars,"  replied  Tommy  with  business-like 
gravity. 

"Well,"  said  Johnson  after  a  deliberation  commen- 
surate with  the  magnitude  of  the  transaction,  "ef  you  win, 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  31 

call  it  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand,  round  War's  the 
keerds?" 

They  were  in  an  old  tin  box  in  a  crevice  of  a  rock 
above  his  head.  They  were  greasy  and  worn  with  service. 
Johnson  dealt,  albeit  his  right  hand  was  still  uncertain, — 
hovering,  after  dropping  the  cards,  aimlessly  about  Tommy, 
and  being  only  recalled  by  a  strong  nervous  effort.  Yet, 
notwithstanding  this  incapacity  for  even  honest  manipula- 
tion, Mr.  Johnson  covertly  turned  a  knave  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pack  with  such  shameless  inefficiency  and  gratuitous 
unskilfulness,  that  even  Tommy  was  obliged  to  cough  and 
look  elsewhere  to  hide  his  embarrassment.  Possibly  for 
this  reason  the  young  gentleman  was  himself  constrained, 
by  way  of  correction,  to  add  a  valuable  card  to  his 
own  hand,  over  and  above  the  number  he  legitimately 
held. 

Nevertheless  the  game  was  unexciting  and  dragged 
listlessly.  Johnson  won.  He  recorded  the  fact  and  the 
amount  with  a  stub  of  pencil  and  shaking  fingers  in  wander- 
ing hieroglyphics  all  over  a  pocket  diary.  Then  there  was 
a  long  pause,  when  Johnson  slowly  drew  something  from 
his  pocket  and  held  it  up  before  his  companion.  It  was 
apparently  a  dull  red  stone. 

"Ef,"  said  Johnson  slowly,  with  his  old  look  of  simple 
cunning, — "ef  you  happened  to  pick  up  sich  a  rock  ez  that, 
Tommy,  what  might  you  say  it  was  ?  " 

"  Don't  know,"  said  Tommy. 

"  Mightn't  you  say,"  continued  Johnson  cautiously,  "that 
it  was  gold  or  silver  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  said  Tommy  promptly. 

"  Mightn't  you  say  it  was  quicksilver?  Mightn't  you  say 
that  ef  thar  was  a  friend  o'  yourn  ez  knew  war  to  go  and 
turn  out  ten  ton  of  it  a  day,  and  every  ton  worth  two 
thousand  dollars,  that  he  had  a  soft  thing,  a  very  soft  thing, 


32  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

— allowin',  Tommy,  that  you  used  sich  language,  which  you 
don't?" 

"  But,"  said  the  boy,  coming  to  the  point  with  great 
directness,  "  do  you  know  where  to  get  it  ?  have  you  struck 
it,  Uncle  Ben?" 

Johnson  looked  carefully  round.  "  I  hev,  Tommy. 
Listen.  I  know  whar  thar's  cartloads  of  it.  But  thar's 
only  one  other  specimen — the  mate  to  this  yer — thet's 
above  ground,  and  thet's  in  'Frisco.  Thar's  an  agint  comin' 
up  in  a  day  or  two  to  look  into  it.  I  sent  for  him.  Eh  ?  " 

His  bright,  restless  eyes  were  concentrated  on  Tommy's 
face  now,  but  the  boy  showed  neither  surprise  nor  interest. 
Least  of  all  did  he  betray  any  recollection  of  Bill's  ironical 
and  gratuitous  corroboration  of  this  part  of  the  story. 

"Nobody  knows  it,"  continued  Johnson  in  a  nervous 
whisper, — "nobody  knows  it  but  you  and  the  agint  in 
'Frisco.  The  boys  workin'  round  yar  passes  by  and  sees 
the  old  man  grubbin'  away,  and  no  signs  o'  colour,  not 
even  rotten  quartz;  the  boys  loafm'  round  the  Mansion 
House  sees  the  old  man  lyin'  round  free  in  bar-rooms,  and 
thay  laughs  and  sez,  'Played  out,'  and  spects  nothin'. 
Maybe  ye  think  they  specks  suthin'  now,  eh?"  queried 
Johnson,  suddenly,  with  a  sharp  look  of  suspicion. 

Tommy  looked  up,  shook  his  head,  threw  a  stone  at  a 
passing  rabbit,  but  did  not  reply. 

"  When  I  fust  set  eyes  on  you,  Tommy,"  continued 
Johnson,  apparently  reassured,  "  the  fust  day  you  kem  and 
pumped  for  me,  an  entire  stranger,  and  hevin'  no  call  to  do 
it,  I  sez,  '  Johnson,  Johnson,'  sez  I,  '  yer's  a  boy  you  kin 
trust.  Yer's  a  boy  that  won't  play  you ;  yer's  a  chap  that's 
white  and  square,' — white  and  square,  Tommy :  them's  the 
very  words  I  used." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  in  a  confiden- 
tial whisper,  "  You  want  capital,  Johnson,' sez  I,  'to  develop 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  33 

your  resources,  and  you  want  a  pardner.  Capital  you  can 
send  for,  but  your  pardner,  Johnson, — your  pardner  is  right 
yer.  And  his  name,  it  is  Tommy  Islington.'  Them's  the 
very  words  I  used." 

He  stopped  and  chafed  his  clammy  hands  upon  his 
knees.  "  It's  six  months  ago  sens  I  made  you  my  pardner. 
Thar  ain't  a  lick  I've  struck  sens  then,  Tommy,  thar  ain't 
a  han'ful  o'  yearth  I've  washed,  thar  ain't  a  shovelful  o' 
rock  I've  turned  over,  but  I  tho't  o'  you.  *  Share,  and 
share  alike/  sez  I.  When  I  wrote  to  my  agint,  I  wrote 
ekal  for  my  pardner,  Tommy  Islington,  he  hevin'  no  call  to 
know  ef  the  same  was  man  or  boy." 

He  had  moved  nearer  the  boy,  and  would  perhaps  have 
laid  his  hand  caressingly  upon  him,  but  even  in  his  manifest 
affection  there  was  a  singular  element  of  awed  restraint  and 
even  fear, — a  suggestion  of  something  withheld  even  his 
fullest  confidences,  a  hopeless  perception  of  some  vague 
barrier  that  never  could  be  surmounted.  He  may  have 
been  at  times  dimly  conscious  that,  in  the  eyes  which 
Tommy  raised  to  his,  there  was  thorough  intellectual  appre- 
ciation, critical  good-humour,  even  feminine  softness,  but 
nothing  more.  His  nervousness  somewhat  heightened  by 
his  embarrassment,  he  went  on  with  an  attempt  at  calmness 
which  his  twitching  white  lips  and  unsteady  fingers  made 
pathetically  grotesque.  "  Thar's  a  bill  o'  sale  in  my  bunk, 
made  out  accordin'  to  law,  of  an  ekal  ondivided  half  of  the 
claim,  and  the  consideration  is  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars — gambling  debts — gambling  debts  from 
me  to  you,  Tommy,  you  understand?" — nothing  could 
exceed  the  intense  cunning  of  his  eye  at  this  moment — 
"  and  then  thar's  a  will." 

"  A  will  ?  "  said  Tommy  in  amused  surprise. 

Johnson  looked  frightened. 

VOL.  in.  c 


34  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

"Eh?"  he  said  hurriedly,  "wot  will?  Who  said  any- 
thin'  'bout  a  will,  Tommy  ?  " 

"  Nobody,"  replied  Tommy  with  unblushing  calm. 

Johnson  passed  his  hand  over  his  cold  forehead,  wrung 
the  damp  ends  of  his  hair  with  his  fingers,  and  went  on : 
"  Times  when  I'm  took  bad  ez  I  was  to-day,  the  boys  about 
yer  sez — you  sez,  maybe,  Tommy — it's  whisky.  It  ain't, 
Tommy.  It's  pizen — quicksilver  pizen.  That's  what's  the 
matter  with  me.  I'm  salivated  !  Salivated  with  merkery." 

"  I've  heerd  o'  it  before,"  continued  Johnson,  appealing 
to  the  boy,  "  and  ez  a  boy  o'  permiskus  reading,  I  reckon 
you  hev  too.  Them  men  as  works  in  cinnabar  sooner  or 
later  gets  salivated.  It's  bound  to  fetch  'em  some  time. 
Salivated  by  merkery." 

"  What  are  you  goin'  to  do  for  it  ?  "  asked  Tommy. 

"  When  the  agint  comes  up,  and  I  begins  to  realise  on 
this  yer  mine,"  said  Johnson  contemplatively,  "  I  goes  to 
New  York.  I  sez  to  the  barkeep'  o'  the  hotel,  *  Show  me 
the  biggest  doctor  here.'  He  shows  me.  I  sez  to  him, 
*  Salivated  by  merkery — a  year's  standin' — how  much  ? ' 
He  sez,  '  Five  thousand  dollars,  and  take  two  o'  these  pills 
at  bedtime,  and  an  ekil  number  o'  powders  at  meals,  and 
come  back  in  a  week.'  And  I  goes  back  in  a  week,  cured, 
and  signs  a  certifikit  to  that  effect." 

Encouraged  by  a  look  of  interest  in  Tommy's  eye,  he 
went  on. 

"So  I  gets  cured.  I  goes  to  the  barkeep',  and  I  sez, 
'  Show  me  the  biggest,  fashionblest  house  thet's  for  sale  yer.' 
And  he  sez,  *  The  biggest  nat'rally"  b'longs  to  John  Jacob 
Astor.'  And  I  sez,  '  Show  him,'  and  he  shows  him.  And 
I  sez,  { Wot  might  you  ask  for  this  yer  house  ? '  And  he 
looks  at  me  scornful,  and  sez,  '  Go  'way,  old  man ;  you 
must  be  sick.'  And  I  fetches  him  one  over  the  left  eye, 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  35 

and  he  apologises,  and  I  gives  him  his  own  price  for  the 
house.  I  stocks  that  nouse  with  mahogany  furniture  and 
pervisions,  and  thar  we  lives, — you  and  me,  Tommy,  you 
and  me ! " 

The  sun  no  longer  shone  upon  the  hillside.  The  shadows 
of  the  pines  were  beginning  to  creep  over  Johnson's  claim, 
and  the  air  within  the  cavern  was  growing  chill.  In  the 
gathering  darkness  his  eyes  shone  brightly  as  he  went  on  : 
"  Then  thar  comes  a  day  when  we  gives  a  big  spread.  We 
invites  govners,  members  o'  Congress,  gentlemen  o'  fashion, 
and  the  like.  And  among  'em  I  invites  a  Man  as  holds  his 
head  very  high,  a  Man  I  once  knew ;  but  he  doesn't  know 
I  knows  him,  and  he  doesn't  remember  me.  And  he  comes 
and  he  sits  opposite  me,  and  I  watches  him.  And  he's 
very  airy,  this  Man,  and  very  chipper,  and  he  wipes  his 
mouth  with  a  white  hankercher,  and  he  smiles,  and  he 
ketches  my  eye.  And  he  sez,  '  A  glass  o'  wine  with  you, 
Mr.  Johnson ; '  and  he  fills  his  glass  and  I  fills  mine,  and 
we  rises.  And  I  heaves  that  wine,  glass  and  all,  right  into 
his  damned  grinnin'-  face.  And  he  jumps  for  me — for  he 
is  very  game  this  Man,  very  game — but  some  on  'em  grabs 
him,  and  he  sez,  '  Who  be  you  ? '  And  I  sez,  '  Skaggs ! 
Damn  you,  Skaggs  !  Look  at  me  !  Gimme  back  my  wife 
and  child,  gimme  back  the  money  you  stole,  gimme  back 
the  good  name  you  took  away,  gimme  back  the  health  you 
ruined,  gimme  back  the  last  twelve  years  !  Give  'em  to 
me,  damn  you,  quick,  before  I  cuts  your  heart  out ! '  And 
naterally,  Tommy,  he  can't  do  it.  And  so  I  cuts  his  heart 
out,  my  boy  ;  I  cuts  his  heart  out." 

The  purely  animal  fury  of  his  eye  suddenly  changed 
again  to  cunning.  "  You  think  they  hangs  me  for  it, 
Tommy,  but  they  don't.  Not  much,  Tommy.  I  goes  to 
the  biggest  lawyer  there,  and  I  says  to  him,  '  Salivated  by 
merkery — you  hear  me — salivated  by  merkery.'  And  he 


36  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

winks  at  me,  and  he  goes  to  the  judge,  and  he  sez,  '  This 
yer  unfortnet  man  isn't  responsible — he's  been  salivated  by 
merkery.'  And  he  brings  witnesses ;  you  comes,  Tommy, 
and  you  sez  ez  how  you've  seen  me  took  bad  afore ;  and 
the  doctor,  he  comes,  and  he  sez  as  how  he's  seen  me 
frightful ;  and  the  jury,  without  leavin'  their  seats,  brings  in 
a  verdict  o'  justifiable  insanity, — salivated  by  merkery." 

In  the  excitement  of  his  climax  he  had  risen  to  his  feet, 
but  would  have  fallen  had  not  Tommy  caught  him  and  led 
him  into  the  open  air.  In  this  sharper  light  there  was 
an  odd  change  visible  in  his  yellow-white  face, — a  change 
which  caused  Tommy  to  hurriedly  support  him,  half  leading, 
half  dragging  him  toward  the  little  cabin.  When  they  had 
reached  it,  Tommy  placed  him  on  a  rude  "  bunk,"  or  shelf, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  in  anxious  contemplation  of  the 
tremor-stricken  man  before  him.  Then  he  said  rapidly, 
"  Listen,  Uncle  Ben.  I'm  goin'  to  town — to  town,  you  un- 
derstand— for  the  doctor.  You're  not  to  get  up  or  move 
on  any  account  until  I  return.  Do  you  hear  ?  "  Johnson 
nodded  violently.  "  I'll  be  back  in  two  hours."  In 
another  moment  he  was  gone. 

For  an  hour  Johnson  kept  his  word.  Then  he  suddenly 
sat  up,  and  began  to  gaze  fixedly  at  a  corner  of  the  cabin. 
From  gazing  at  it  he  began  to  smile,  from  smiling  at  it  he 
began  to  talk,  from  talking  at  it  he  began  to  scream,  from 
screaming  he  passed  to  cursing  and  sobbing  wildly.  Then 
he  lay  quiet  again. 

He  was  so  still  that  to  merely  human  eyes  he  might  have 
seemed  asleep  or  dead.  But  a  squirrel,  that,  emboldened 
by  the  stillness,  had  entered  from  the  roof,  stopped  short 
upon  a  beam  above  the  bunk,  for  he  saw  that  the  man's 
foot  was  slowly  and  cautiously  moving  towards  the  floor, 
and  that  the  man's  eyes  were  as  intent  and  watchful  as  his 
own.  Presently,  still  without  a  sound,  both  feet -were  upon 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  37 

the  floor.  And  then  the  bunk  creaked,  and  the  squirrel 
whisked  into  the  eaves  of  the  roof.  When  he  peered  forth 
again,  everything  was  quiet,  and  the  man  was  gone. 

An  hour  later  two  muleteers  on  the  Placerville  Road 
passed  a  man  with  dishevelled  hair,  glaring,  bloodshot  eyes, 
and  clothes  torn  with  bramble  and  stained  with  the  red 
dust  of  the  mountain.  They  pursued  him,  when  he  turned 
fiercely  on  the  foremost,  wrested  a  pistol  from  his  grasp, 
and  broke  away.  Later  still,  when  the  sun  had  dropped 
behind  Payne's  Ridge,  the  underbrush  on  Deadwood 
Slope  .crackled  with  a  stealthy  but  continuous  tread.  It 
must  have  been  an  animal  whose  dimly-outlined  bulk,  in  the 
gathering  darkness,  showed  here  and  there  in  vague  but 
incessant  motion  ;  it  could  be  nothing  but  an  animal  whose 
utterance  was  at  once  so  incoherent,  monotonous,  and 
unremitting.  Yet,  when  the  sound  came  nearer,  and  the 
chaparral  was  parted,  it  seemed  to  be  a  man,  and  that  man 
Johnson. 

Above  the  baying  of  phantasmal  hounds  that  pressed  him 
hard  and  drove  him  on,  with  never  rest  or  mercy ;  above 
the  lashing  of  a  spectral  whip  that  curled  about  his  limbs, 
sang  in  his  ears,  and  continually  stung  him  forward ;  above 
the  outcries  of  the  unclean  shapes  that  thronged  about  him, 
— he  could  still  distinguish  one  real  sound,  the  rush  and 
sweep  of  hurrying  waters.  The  Stanislaus  River !  A 
thousand  feet  below  him  drove  its  yellowing  current. 
Through  all  the  vacillations  of  his  unseated  mind  he  had 
clung  to  one  idea — to  reach  the  river,  to  lave  in  it,  to  swim 
it  if  need  be,  but  to  put  it  for  ever  between  him  and  the 
harrying  shapes,  to  drown  for  ever  in  its  turbid  depths  the 
thronging  spectres,  to  wash  away  in  its  yellow  flood  all  stains 
and  colour  of  the  past.  And  now  he  was  leaping  from 
boulder  to  boulder,  from  blackened  stump  to  stump,  from 
gnarled  bush  to  bush,  caught  for  a  moment  and  withheld  by 


38  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

clinging  vines,  or  plunging  downward  into  dusty  hollows, 
until,  rolling,  dropping,  sliding,  and  stumbling,  he  reached 
the  river-bank,  whereon  he  fell,  rose,  staggered  forward,  and 
fell  again  with  outstretched  arms  upon  a  rock  that  breasted 
the  swift  current.  And  there  he  lay  as  dead. 

A  few  stars  came  out  hesitatingly  above  Deadwood 
Slope.  A  cold  wind  that  had  sprung  up  with  the  going 
down  of  the  sun  fanned  them  into  momentary  brightness, 
swept  the  heated  flanks  of  the  mountain,  and  ruffled  the 
river.  Where  the  fallen  man  lay  there  was  a  sharp  curve  in 
the  stream,  so  that  in  the  gathering  shadows  the  rushing 
water  seemed  to  leap  out  of  the  darkness  and  to  vanish 
again.  Decayed  driftwood,  trunks  of  trees,  fragments  of 
broken  sluicing — the  wash  and  waste  of  many  a  mile — 
swept  into  sight  a  moment,  and  were  gone.  All  of  decay, 
wreck,  and  foulness  gathered  in  the  long  circuit  of  mining- 
camp  and  settlement,  all  the  dregs  and  refuse  of  a  crude 
and  wanton  civilisation,  reappeared  for  an  instant,  and  then 
were  hurried  away  in  the  darkness  and  lost.  No  wonder 
that,  as  the  wind  ruffled  the  yellow  waters,  the  waves  seemed 
to  lift  their  unclean  hands  toward  the  rock  whereon  the 
fallen  man  lay,  as  if  eager  to  snatch  him  from  it,  too,  and 
hurry  him  toward  the  sea. 

It  was  very  still.  In  the  clear  air  a  horn  blown  a  mile 
away  was  heard  distinctly.  The  jingling  of  a  spur  and  a 
laugh  on  the  highway  over  Payne's  Ridge  sounded  clearly 
across  the  river.  The  rattling  of  harness  and  hoofs  fore- 
told for  many  minutes  the  approach  of  the  Wingdam  coach, 
that  at  last,  with  flashing  lights,  passed  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  rock.  Then  for  an  hour  all  again  was  quiet.  Presently 
the  moon,  round  and  full,  lifted  herself  above  the  serried 
ridge  and  looked  down  upon  the  river.  At  first  the  bared 
peak  of  Deadwood  Hill  gleamed  white  and  skull-like.  Then 
the  shadows  of  Payne's  Ridge  cast  on  the  slope  slowly  sank 


Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands.  39 

away,  leaving  the  unshapely  stumps,  the  dusty  fissures,  and 
clinging  outcrop  of  Deadwood  Slope  to  stand  out  in  black 
and  silver.  Still  stealing  softly  downward,  the  moonlight 
touched  the  bank  and  the  rock,  and  then  glittered  brightly 
on  the  river.  The  rock  was  bare  and  the  man  was  gone, 
but  the  river  still  hurried  swiftly  to  the  sea. 

"  Is  there  anything  for  me  ? "  asked  Tommy  Islington, 
as,  a  week  after,  the  stage  drew  up  at  the  Mansion  House, 
and  Bill  slowly  entered  the  bar-room.  Bill  did  not  reply, 
but,  turning  to  a  stranger  who  had  entered  with  him,  indi- 
cated with  a  jerk  of  his  finger  the  boy.  The  stranger  turned 
with  an  air  half  of  business,  half  of  curiosity,  and  looked 
critically  at  Tommy.  "  Is  there  anything  for  me  ?  "  repeated 
Tommy,  a  little  confused  at  the  silence  and  scrutiny.  Bill 
walked  deliberately  to  the  bar,  and,  placing  his  back  against 
it,  faced  Tommy  with  a  look  of  demure  enjoyment. 

"Ef,"  he  remarked  slowly, — "ef  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  down  and  half  a  million  in  perspektive  is  ennything, 
Major,  THERE  is !" 


PART  II.— EAST. 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Angel's  that  the  disappearance  of 
Johnson,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  left  his  entire  property  to 
Tommy,  thrilled  the  community  but  slightly  in  comparison 
with  the  astounding  discovery  that  he  had  anything  to  leave. 
The  finding  of  a  cinnabar  lode  at  Angel's  absorbed  all 
collateral  facts  or  subsequent  details.  Prospectors  from 
adjoining  camps  thronged  the  settlement;  the  hillside  for 
a  mile  on  either  side  of  Johnson's  claim  was  staked  out  and 
pre-empted ;  trade  received  a  sudden  stimulus ;  and,  in 
the  excited  rhetoric  of  the  "Weekly  Record,"  "a  new  era 
had  broken  upon  Angel's."  "  On  Thursday  last,"  added 


40  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

that  paper,  "  over  five  hundred  dollars  were  taken  in  over 
the  bar  of  the  Mansion  House." 

Of  the  fate  of  Johnson  there  was  little  doubt.  He  had 
been  last  seen  lying  on  a  boulder  on  the  river-bank  by  out- 
side passengers  of  the  Wingdam  night  coach,  and  when 
Finn  of  Robinson's  Ferry  admitted  to  have  fired  three  shots 
from  a  revolver  at  a  dark  object  struggling  in  the  water  near 
the  ferry,  which  he  "  suspicioned  "  to  be  a  bear,  the  ques- 
tion seemed  to  be  settled.  Whatever  might  have  been  the 
fallibility  of  his  judgment,  of  the  accuracy  of  his  aim  there 
could  be  no  doubt.  The  general  belief  that  Johnson,  after 
possessing  himself  of  the  muleteer's  pistol,  could  have  run 
amuck,  gave  a  certain  retributive  justice  to  this  story,  which 
rendered  it  acceptable  to  the  camp. 

It  was  also  characteristic  of  Angel's  that  no  feeling  of 
envy  or  opposition  to  the  good  fortune  of  Tommy  Islington 
prevailed  there.  That  he  was  thoroughly  cognisant,  from 
the  first,  of  Johnson's  discovery,  that  his  attentions  to  him 
were  interested,  calculating,  and  speculative,  was,  however, 
the  general  belief  of  the  majority, — a  belief  that,  singularly 
enough,  awakened  the  first  feelings  of  genuine  respect  for 
Tommy  ever  shown  by  the  camp.  "  He  ain't  no  fool ; 
Yuba  Bill  seed  thet  from  the  first,"  said  the  barkeeper.  It 
was  Yuba  Bill  who  applied  for  the  guardianship  of  Tommy 
after  his  accession  to  Johnson's  claim,  and  on  whose  bonds 
the  richest  men  of  Calaveras  were  represented.  It  was 
Yuba  Bill,  also,  when  Tommy  was  sent  East  to  finish  his 
education,  accompanied  him  to  San  Francisco,  and,  before 
parting  with  his  charge  on  the  steamer's  deck,  drew  him 
aside,  and  said,  "  Ef  at  enny  time  you  want  enny  money, 
Tommy,  over  and  'bove  your  'lowance,  you  kin  write ;  but 
ef  you'll  take  my  advice,"  he  added,  with  a  sudden  huski- 
ness  mitigating  the  severity  of  his  voice,  "  you'll  forget  every 
derned  ole  spavined,  string-halted  bummer,  as  you  ever  met 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  41 

or  knew  at  Angel's, — ev'ry  one,  Tommy, — ev'ry  one  !  And 
so — boy — take  care  of  yourself — and — and—  God  bless  ye, 
and  pertikerly  d — n  me  for  a  first-class  A  i  fool."  It  was 
Yuba  Bill,  also,  after  this  speech,  glared  savagely  around, 
walked  down  the  crowded  gang-plank  with  a  rigid  and 
aggressive  shoulder,  picked  a  quarrel  with  his  cabman,  and, 
after  bundling  that  functionary  into  his  own  vehicle,  took 
the  reins  himself,  and  drove  furiously  to  his  hotel.  "  It 
cost  me,"  said  Bill,  recounting  the  occurrence  somewhat 
later  at  Angel's, — "it  cost  me  a  matter  o'  twenty  dollars 
afore  the  jedge  the  next  mornin' ;  but  you  kin  bet  high  thet 
I  taught  them  'Frisco  chaps  suthin'  new  about  drivin'.  I 
didn't  make  it  lively  in  Montgomery  Street  for  about  ten 
minutes — oh  no  !" 

And  so  by  degrees  the  two  original  locators  of  the  great 
Cinnabar  Lode  faded  from  the  memory  of  Angel's,  and 
Calaveras  knew  them  no  more.  In  five  years  their  very 
names  had  been  forgotten  ;  in  seven  the  name  of  the  town 
was  changed ;  in  ten  the  town  itself  was  transported  bodily 
to  the  hillside,  and  the  chimney  of  the  Union  Smelting 
Works  by  night  flickered  like  a  corpse-light  over  the  site  of 
Johnson's  cabin,  and  by  day  poisoned  the  pure  spices  of 
the  pines.  Even  the  Mansion  House  was  dismantled,  and 
the  Wingdam  stage  deserted  the  highway  for  a  shorter  cut 
by  Quicksilver  City.  Only  the  bared  crest  of  Deadwood 
Hill,  as  of  old,  sharply  cut  the  clear  blue  sky,  and  at  its 
base,  as  of  old,  the  Stanislaus  River,  unwearied  and  unrest- 
ing, babbled,  whispered,  and  hurried  away  to  the  sea. 

A  midsummer's  day  was  breaking  lazily  on  the  Atlantic. 
There  was  not  wind  enough  to  move  the  vapours  in  the 
foggy  offing,  but  when  the  vague  distance  heaved  against  a 
violet  sky  there  were  dull  red  streaks  that,  growing  brighter, 
presently  painted  out  the  stars.  Soon  the  brown  rocks  of 


42  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

Groyport  appeared  faintly  suffused,  and  then  the  whole 
ashen  line  of  dead  coast  was  kindled,  and  the  lighthouse 
beacons  went  out  one  by  one.  And  then  a  hundred  sail, 
before  invisible,  started  out  of  the  vapoury  horizon,  and 
pressed  toward  the  shore.  It  was  morning,  indeed,  and 
some  of  the  best  society  in  Greyport,  having  been  up  all 
night,  were  thinking  it  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

For  as  the  sky  flashed  brighter  it  fired  the  clustering  red 
roofs  of  a  picturesque  house  by  the  sands  that  had  all  that 
night,  from  open  lattice  and  illuminated  balcony,  given  light 
and  music  to  the  shore.  It  glittered  on  the  broad  crystal 
spaces  of  a  great  conservatory  that  looked  upon  an  exquisite 
lawn,  where  all  night  long  the  blended  odours  of  sea  and 
shore  had  swooned  under  the  summer  moon.  But  it 
wrought  confusion  among  the  coloured  lamps  on  the  long 
veranda,  and  startled  a  group  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  who 
had  stepped  from  the  drawing-room  window  to  gaze  upon 
it.  It  was  so  searching  and  sincere  in  its  way,  that,  as  the 
carriage  of  the  fairest  Miss  Gillyflower  rolled  away,  that 
peerless  young  woman,  catching  sight  of  her  face  in  the 
oval  mirror,  instantly  pulled  down  the  blinds,  and,  nest- 
ling the  whitest  shoulders  in  Greyport  against  the  crimson 
cushions,  went  to  sleep. 

"  How  haggard  everybody  is !  Rose,  dear,  you  look 
almost  intellectual,"  said  Blanche  Masterman. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Rose  simply.  "  Sunrises  are  very 
trying.  Look  how  that  pink  regularly  puts  out  Mrs.  Brown- 
Robinson,  hair  and  all ! " 

"The  angels,"  said  the  Count  de  Nugat,  with  a  polite 
gesture  toward  the  sky,  "must  have  find  these  celestial 
combinations  very  bad  for  the  toilette" 

"  They're  safe  in  white, — except  when  they  sit  for  their 
pictures  in  Venice,"  said  Blanche.  "  How  fresh  Mr.  Isling- 
ton looks  !  It's  really  uncomplimentary  to  us." 


Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands.  43 

"  1  suppose  the  sun  recognises  in  me  no  rival,"  said  the 
young  man  demurely.  "  But,"  he  added,  "  I  have  lived 
much  in  the  open  air  and  require  very  little  sleep." 

"  How  delightful !  "  said  Mrs.  Brown-Robinson  in  a  low, 
enthusiastic  voice,  and  a  manner  that  held  the  glowing 
sentiment  of  sixteen  and  the  practical  experiences  of  thirty- 
two  in  dangerous  combination ; — "  how  perfectly  delightful ! 
What  sunrises  you  must  have  seen,  and  in  such  wild, 
romantic  places  !  How  I  envy  you  !  My  nephew  was  a 
classmate  of  yours,  and  has  often  repeated  to  me  those 
charming  stories  you  tell  of  your  adventures.  Won't  you 
tell  some  now  ?  Do  !  How  you  must  tire  of  us  and  this 
artificial  life  here,  so  frightfully  artificial,  you  know  "  (in  a 
confidential  whisper) ;  "  and  then  to  think  of  the  days 
when  you  roamed  the  great  West  with  the  Indians,  and 
the  bisons,  and  the  grizzly  bears  !  Of  course,  you  have 
seen  grizzly  bears  and  bisons  ?  " 

"  Of 'course  he  has,  dear,"  said  Blanche  a  little  pettishly, 
throwing  a  cloak  over  her  shoulders,  and  seizing  her  chaperon 
by  the  arm ;  "  his  earliest  infancy  was  soothed  by  bisons, 
and  he  proudly  points  to  the  grizzly  bear  as  the  playmate 
of  his  youth.  Come  with  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it 
How  good  it  is  of  you,"  she  added,  sotto  voce,  to  Islington 
as  he  stood  by  the  carriage, — "  how  perfectly  good  it  is  of 
you  to  be  like  those  animals  you  tell  us  of,  and  not  know 
your  full  power.  Think,  with  your  experiences  and  our 
credulity,  what  stories  you  might  tell !  And  you  are  going 
to  walk?  Good  night,  then."  A  slim,  gloved  hand  was 
frankly  extended  from  the  window,  and  the  next  moment 
the  carriage  rolled  away. 

"Isn't  Islington  throwing  away  a  chance  there?"  said 
Captain  Merwin  on  the  veranda. 

"  Perhaps  he  couldn't  stand  my  lovely  aunt's  super- 
added  presence.  But  then,  he's  the  guest  of  Blanche's 


44  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

father,  and  I  daresay  they  see  enough  of  each  other  as 
it  is." 

"  But  isn't  it  a  rather  dangerous  situation  ?  " 

"  For  him,  perhaps  ;  although  he's  awfully  old,  and  very 
queer.  For  her,  with  an  experience  that  takes  in  all  the 
available  men  in  both  hemispheres,  ending  with  Nugat 
over  there,  I  should  say  a  man  more  or  less  wouldn't  affect 
her  much,  anyway.  Of  course,"  he  laughed,  "these  are 
the  accents  of  bitterness.  But  that  was  last  year." 

Perhaps  Islington  did  not  overhear  the  speaker ;  perhaps, 
if  he  did,  the  criticism  was  not  new.  He  turned  carelessly 
away,  and  sauntered  out  on  the  road  to  the  sea.  Thence 
he  strolled  along  the  sands  toward  the  cliffs,  where,  meeting 
an  impediment  in  the  shape  of  a  garden  wall,  he  leaped  it 
with  a  certain  agile,  boyish  ease  and  experience,  and  struck 
across  an  open  lawn  toward  the  rocks  again.  The  best 
society  of  Greyport  were  not  early  risers,  and  the  spectacle 
of  a  trespasser  in  an  evening  dress  excited  only  the  criticism 
of  grooms  hanging  about  the  stables,  or  cleanly  housemaids 
on  the  broad  verandas  that  in  Greyport  architecture  dutifully 
gave  upon  the  sea.  Only  once,  as  he  entered  the  boundaries 
of  Cliffwood  Lodge,  the  famous  seat  of  Renwyck  Masterman, 
was  he  aware  of  suspicious  scrutiny ;  but  a  slouching  figure 
that  vanished  quickly  in  the  lodge  offered  no  opposition  to 
his  progress.  Avoiding  the  pathway  to  the  lodge,  Islington 
kept  along  the  rocks  until,  reaching  a  little  promontory  and 
rustic  pavilion,  he  sat  down  and  gazed  upon  the  sea. 

And  presently  an  infinite  peace  stole  upon  him.  Except 
where  the  waves  lapped  lazily  the  crags  below,  the  vast 
expanse  beyond  seemed  unbroken  by  ripple,  heaving  only 
in  broad  ponderable  sheets,  and  rhythmically,  as  if  still  in 
sleep.  The  air  was  filled  with  a  luminous  haze  that  caught 
and  held  the  direct  sunbeams.  In  the  deep  calm  that  lay 
upon  the  sea,  it  seemed  to  Islington  that  all  the  tenderness 


Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands.  45 

of  culture,  magic  of  wealth,  and  spell  of  refinement  that  for 
years  had  wrought  upon  that  favoured  shore  had  extended 
its  gracious  influence  even  here.  What  a  pampered  and 
caressed  old  ocean  it  was;  cajoled,  flattered,  and  feted 
where  it  lay  !  An  odd  recollection  of  the  turbid  Stanislaus 
hurrying  by  the  ascetic  pines,  of  the  grim  outlines  of  Dead- 
wood  Hill,  swam  before  his  eyes,  and  made  the  yellow 
green  of  the  velvet  lawn  and  graceful  foliage  seem  almost 
tropical  by  contrast  And,  looking  up,  a  few  yards  distant 
he  beheld  a  tall  slip  of  a  girl  gazing  upon  the  sea — Blanche 
Masterman. 

She  had  plucked  somewhere  a  large  fan-shaped  leaf, 
which  she  held  parasol-wise,  shading  the  blonde  masses  of 
her  hair,  and  hiding  her  gray  eyes.  She  had  changed  her 
festal  dress,  with  its  amplitude  of  flounce  and  train,  for  a 
closely  fitting  half-antique  habit  whose  scant  outlines  would 
have  been  trying  to  limbs  less  shapely,  but  which  prettily 
accented  the  graceful  curves  and  sweeping  lines  of  this 
Greyport  goddess.  As  Islington  rose,  she  came  toward 
him  with  a  frankly  outstretched  hand  and  unconstrained 
manner.  Had  she  observed  him  first  ?  I  don't  know. 

They  sat  down  together  on  a  rustic  seat,  Miss  Blanche 
facing  the  sea,  and  shading  her  eyes  with  the  leaf. 

"  I  don't  really  know  how  long  I  have  been  sitting  here," 
said  Islington,  "or  whether  I  have  not  been  actually  asleep 
and  dreaming.  It  seemed  too  lovely  a  morning  to  go  to 
bed.  But  you  ?  " 

From  behind  the  leaf,  it  appeared  that  Miss  Blanche,  on 
retiring,  had  been  pursued  by  a  hideous  four-winged  insect 
which  defied  the  efforts  of  herself  and  maid  to  dislodge. 
Odin,  the  Spitz  dog,  had  insisted  upon  scratching  at  the  door. 
And  it  made  her  eyes  red  to  sleep  in  the  morning.  And 
she  had  an  early  call  to  make.  And  the  sea  looked  lovely. 

"I'm  glad  to  find  you  here,  whatever  be  the  cause," 


46  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

said  Islington  with  his  old  directness.  "  To-day,  as  you 
know,  is  my  last  day  in  Greyport,  and  it  is  much  pleasanter 
to  say  good-bye  under  this  blue  sky  than  even  beneath 
your  father's  wonderful  frescoes  yonder.  I  want  to  remem- 
ber you,  too,  as  part  of  this  pleasant  prospect  which  belongs 
to  us  all,  rather  than  recall  you  in  anybody's  particular 
setting." 

"  I  know,"  said  Blanche  with  equal  directness,  "  that 
houses  are  one  of  the  defects  of  our  civilisation;  but  I 
don't  think  I  ever  heard  the  idea  as  elegantly  expressed 
before.  Where  do  you  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I  have  several  plans.  I  may  go  to 
South  America  and  become  president  of  one  of  the  re- 
publics,— I  am  not  particular  which.  I  am  rich,  but  in  that 
part  of  America  which  lies  outside  of  Greyport  it  is  neces- 
sary for  every  man  to  have  some  work.  My  friends  think 
I  should  have  some  great  aim  in  life,  with  a  capital  A.  But 
I  was  born  a  vagabond,  and  a  vagabond  I  shall  probably 
die." 

"  I  don't  know  anybody  in  South  America,"  said  Blanche 
languidly.  "  There  were  two  girls  here  last  season,  but 
they  didn't  wear  stays  in  the  house,  and  their  white  frocks 
never  were  properly  done  up.  If  you  go  to  South  America, 
you  must  write  to  me." 

"  I  will.  Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this  flower  which 
I  found  in  your  greenhouse.  It  looks  much  like  a  Cali- 
fornia blossom." 

"  Perhaps  it  is.  Father  bought  it  of  a  half-crazy  old  man 
who  came  here  one  day.  Do  you  know  him  ?  " 

Islington  laughed.  "  I  am  afraid  not.  But  let  me  pre- 
sent this  in  a  less  business-like  fashion." 

"  Thank  you.  Remind  me  to  give  you  one  in  return  be- 
fore you  go, — or  will  you  choose  yourself?" 

They  had  both  risen  as  by  a  common  instinct 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  47 

"  Good-bye." 

The  cool,  flower-like  hand  lay  in  his  for  an  instant 

"  Will  you  oblige  me  by  putting  aside  that  leaf  a  moment 
before  I  go?" 

"  But  my  eyes  are  red,  and  I  look  like  a  perfect  fright." 

Yet,  after  a  long  pause,  the  leaf  fluttered  down,  and  a 
pair  of  very  beautiful  but  withal  very  clear  and  critical  eyes 
met  his.  Islington  was  constrained  to  look  away.  When 
he  turned  again  she  was  gone. 

"  Mr.  Hislington,— sir  ! " 

It  was  Chalker,  the  English  groom,  out  of  breath  with 
running. 

"  Seein'  you  alone,  sir — beg  your  pardon,  sir — but  there's 
a  person  " 

"  A  person  !  what  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  Speak  Eng- 
lish— no,  damn  it,  I  mean  don't,"  said  Islington  snappishly. 

"  I  said  a  person,  sir.  Beg  pardon — no  offence — but  not 
a  gent,  sir.  In  the  lib'ry." 

A  little  amused  even  through  the  utter  dissatisfaction 
with  himself  and  vague  loneliness  that  had  suddenly  come 
upon  him,  Islington,  as  he  walked  toward  the  lodge,  asked, 
"Why  isn't  he  a  gent?" 

"  No  gent — beggin'  your  pardin,  sir — 'ud  guy  a  man  in 
sarvis,  sir.  Takes  me  'ands  so,  sir,  as  I  sits  in  the  rumble 
at  the  gate,  and  puts  'em  downd  so,  sir,  and  sez,  *  Put  'em 
in  your  pocket,  young  man, — or  is  it  a  road  agint  you  ex- 
pects to  see,  that  you  'olds  hup  your  'ands,  hand  crosses 
'em  like  to  that,'  sez  he.  '  'Old  'ard,'  sez  he,  '  on  the  short 
curves,  or  you'll  bust  your  precious  crust,'  sez  he.  And 
hasks  for  you,  sir.  This  way,  sir." 

They  entered  the  lodge.  Islington  hurried  down  the  long 
Gothic  hall  and  opened  the  library  door. 

In  an  arm-chair,  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  man  sat 
apparently  contemplating  a  large,  stiff,  yellow  hat  with  an 


48  Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands. 

enormous  brim,  that  was  placed  on  the  floor  before  him. 
His  hands  rested  lightly  between  his  knees,  but  one  foot 
was  drawn  up  at  the  side  of  his  chair  in  a  peculiar  manner. 
In  the  first  glance  that  Islington  gave,  the  attitude  in  some 
odd,  irreconcilable  way  suggested  a  brake.  In  another 
moment  he  dashed  across  the  room,  and,  holding  out  both 
hands,  cried,  "YubaBill!" 

The  man  rose,  caught  Islington  by  the  shoulders,  wheeled 
him  round,  hugged  him,  felt  of  his  ribs  like  a  good-natured 
ogre,  shook  his  hands  violently,  laughed,  and  then  said 
somewhat  ruefully,  "  And  however  did  you  know  me  ?  " 

Seeing  that  Yuba  Bill  evidently  regarded  himself  as  in 
some  elaborate  disguise,  Islington  laughed,  and  suggested 
that  it  must  have  been  instinct. 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  Bill,  holding  him  at  arm's  length,  and 
surveying  him  critically, — "  you  ! — toe  think — toe  think — a 
little  cuss  no  higher  nor  a  trace,  a  boy  as  I've  flicked  outer 
the  road  with  a  whip  time  in  agin,  a  boy  ez  never  hed  much 
clothes  to  speak  of,  turned  into  a  sport ! " 

Islington  remembered,  with  a  thrill  of  ludicrous  terror, 
that  he  still  wore  his  evening  dress. 

"  Turned,"  continued  Yuba  Bill  severely, — "  turned  into 
a  restyourant  waiter, — a  garsong !  Eh,  Alfonse,  bring  me 
a  patty  de  foy  grass  and  an  omelet,  demme  ! " 

"  Dear  old  chap  ! "  said  Islington,  laughing,  and  trying 
to  put  his  hand  over  Bill's  bearded  mouth,  "  but  you — you 
don't  look  exactly  like  yourself!  You're  not  well,  Bill." 
And  indeed,  as  he  turned  towards  the  light,  Bill's  eyes 
appeared  cavernous,  and  his  hair  and  beard  thickly  streaked 
with  gray. 

"  Maybe  it's  this  yer  harness,"  said  Bill  a  little  anxiously. 
"When  I  hitches  on  this  yer  curb  "  (he  indicated  a  massive 
gold  watch-chain  with  enormous  links),  "  and  mounts 
this  '  morning  star ' "  (he  pointed  to  a  very  large  solitaire 


Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands.  49 

pin  which  had  the  appearance  of  blistering  his  whole  shirt- 
front),  "it  kinder  weighs  heavy  on  me,  Tommy.  Other- 
wise I'm  all  right,  my  boy — all  right."  But  he  evaded 
Islington's  keen  eye  and  turned  from  the  light. 

"  You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Bill,"  said  Islington  sud- 
denly and  with  almost  brusque  directness;  "out  with  it." 

Bill  did  not  speak,  but  moved  uneasily  toward  his  hat. 

"  You  didn't  come  three  thousand  miles,  without  a  word 
of  warning,  to  talk  to  me  of  old  times,"  said  Islington  more 
kindly,  "  glad  as  I  would  have  been  to  see  you.  It  isn't 
your  way,  Bill,  and  you  know  it.  We  shall  not  be  disturbed 
here,"  he  added,  in  reply  to  an  inquiring  glance  that  Bill 
directed  to  the  door,  "  and  I  am  ready  to  hear  you." 

"  Firstly,  then,"  said  Bill,  drawing  his  chair  nearer 
Islington,  "  answer  me  one  question,  Tommy,  fair  and 
square,  and  up  and  down." 

•'Go  on,"  said  Islington  with  a  slight  smile. 

"Ef  I  should  say  to  you,  Tommy — say  to  you  to-day, 
right  here,  you  must  come  with  me — you  must  leave  this 
place  for  a  month,  a  year,  two  years,  maybe,  perhaps  for 
ever — is  there  anything  that  'ud  keep  you — anything,  my 
boy,  ez  you  couldn't  leave  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Tommy  quietly ;  "  I  am  only  visiting  here. 
I  thought  of  leaving  Greyport  to-day." 

"  But  if  I  should  say  to  you,  Tommy,  come  with  me  on 
a  pasear  to  Chiny,  to  Japan,  to  South  Ameriky,  pVaps, 
could  you  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Islington  after  a  slight  pause. 

"  Thar  isn't  ennything,"  said  Bill,  drawing  a  little  closer, 
and  lowering  his  voice  confidentially, — "ennything  in  the 
way  of  a  young  woman — you  understand,  Tommy — ez 
would  keep  you  ?  They're  mighty  sweet  about  here ;  and 
whether  a  man  is  young  or  old,  Tommy,  there's  always 
some  woman  as  is  brake  or  whip  to  him  ! " 

VOL.  III.  D 


5O  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Hiisbands. 

In  a  certain  excited  bitterness  that  characterised  the 
delivery  of  this  abstract  truth,  Bill  did  not  see  that  the 
young  man's  face  flushed  slightly  as  he  answered  "  No." 

"  Then  listen.  It's  seven  years  ago,  Tommy,  thet  I  was 
working  one  o'  the  Pioneer  coaches  over  from  Gold  Hill. 
Ez  I  stood  in  front  o'  the  stage-office,  the  sheriff  o'  the 
county  comes  to  me,  and  he  sez,  '  Bill,'  sez  he,  '  I've  got  a 
looney  chap,  as  I'm  in  charge  of,  taking  'im  down  to  the 
'sylum  in  Stockton.  He'z  quiet  and  peaceable,  but  the 
insides  don't  like  to  ride  with  him.  Hev  you  enny  objec- 
tion to  give  him  a  lift  on  the  box  beside  you?'  I  sez, 
'No;  put  him  up.'  When  I  came  to  go.  and  get  up  on 
that  box  beside  him,  that  man,  Tommy — that  man  sittin' 
there,  quiet  and  peaceable,  was — Johnson  ! 

"  He  didn't  know  me,  my  boy,"  Yuba  Bill  continued, 
rising  and  putting  his  hands  on  Tommy's  shoulders, — "  he 
didn't  know  me.  He  didn't  know  nothing  about  you,  nor 
Angel's,  nor  the  quicksilver  lode,  nor  even  his  own  name. 
He  said  his  name  was  Skaggs,  but  I  knowed  it  was  Johnson. 
Thar  was  times,  Tommy,  you  might  have  knocked  me  off 
that  box  with  a  feather ;  thar  was  times  when  if  the  twenty- 
seven  passengers  o'  that  stage  hed  found  theirselves 
swimming  in  the  American  River  five  hundred  feet  below 
the  road,  I  never  could  have  explained  it  satisfactorily  to 
the  company, — never. 

"  The  sheriff  said,"  Bill  continued  hastily,  as  if  to  pre- 
clude any  interruption  from  the  young  man, — "  the  sheriff 
said  he  had  been  brought  into  Murphy's  Camp  three  years 
before,  dripping  with  water,  and  sufferin'  from  perkussion 
of  the  brain,  and  had  been  cared  for  generally  by  the  boys 
'round.  When  I  told  the  sheriff  I  knowed  'im,  I  got  him 
to  leave  him  in  my  care;  and  I  took  him  to  'Frisco,  Tommy, 
to  'Frisco,  and  I  put  him  in  charge  o'  the  best  doctors 
there,  and  paid  his  board  myself.  There  was  nothin'  he 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  5 1 

didn't  have  ez  he  wanted.  Don't  look  that  way,  my  dear 
boy,  for  God's  sake,  don't ! " 

"  O  Bill ! "  said  Islington,  rising  and  staggering  to  the 
window,  "  why  did  you  keep  this  from  me  ?  " 

"Why?"  said  Bill,  turning  on  him  savagely, — "why? 
because  I  warn't  a  fool.  Thar  was  you,  winnin'  your  way 
in  college ;  thar  was  you,  risin'  in  the  world,  and  of  some 
account  to  it.  Yer  was  an  old  bummer,  ez  good  ez  dead  to 
it — a  man  ez  oughter  been  dead  afore  !  a  man  ez  never 
denied  it !  But  you  allus  liked  him  better  nor  me,"  said 
Bill  bitterly. 

"  Forgive  me,  Bill,"  said  the  young  man,  seizing  both  his 
hands.  "  I  know  you  did  it  for  the  best ;  but  go  on." 

"  Thar  ain't  much  more  to  tell,  nor  much  use  to  tell  it, 
as  I  can  see,"  said  Bill  moodily.  "He  never  could  be 
cured,  the  doctors  said,  for  he  had  what  they  called  mono- 
mania— was  always  talking  about  his  wife  and  darter  that 
somebody  had  stole  away  years  ago,  and  plannin'  revenge 
on  that  somebody.  And  six  months  ago  he  was  missed. 
I  tracked  him  to  Carson,  to  Salt  Lake  City,  to  Omaha,  to 
Chicago,  to  New  York, — and  here  ! " 

"  Here  ! "  echoed  Islington. 

"  Here !  And  that's  what  brings  me  here  to-day. 
Whethers  he's  crazy  or  well,  whethers  he's  huntin'  you  or 
lookin'  up  that  other  man,  you  must  get  away  from  here. 
You  mustn't  see  him.  You  and  me,  Tommy,  will  go  away  on 
a  cruise.  In  three  or  four  years  he'll  be  dead  or  missing,  and 
then  we'll  come  back.  Come."  And  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Bill,"  said  Islington,  rising  also,  and  taking  the  hand  of 
his  friend  with  the  same  quiet  obstinacy  that  in  the  old 
days  had  endeared  him  to  Bill,  "wherever  he  is,  here  or 
elsewhere,  sane  or  crazy,  I  shall  seek  and  find  him.  Every 
dollar  that  I  have  shall  be  his,  every  dollar  that  I  have  spent 
shall  be  returned  to  him.  I  am  young  yet,  thank  God,  and 


52  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

can  work ;  and  if  there  is  a  way  out  of  this  miserable  busi- 
ness, I  shall  find  it." 

"I  knew,"  said  Bill  with  a  surliness  that  ill  concealed 
his  evident  admiration-  of  the  calm  figure  before  him — "I 
knew  the  partikler  style  of  d — n  fool  that  you  was,  and 
expected  no  better.  Good-bye,  then — God  Almighty ! 
who's  that?" 

He  was  on  his  way  to  the  open  French  window,  but  had 
started  back,  his  face  quite  white  and  bloodless,  and  his 
eyes  staring.  Islington  ran  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
A  white  skirt  vanished  around  the  corner  of  the  veranda. 
When  he  returned,  Bill  had  dropped  into  a  chair. 

"  It  must  have  been  Miss  Masterman,  I  think ;  but 
what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Bill  faintly ;  "  have  you  got  any  whisky 
handy?" 

Islington  brought  a  decanter  and,  pouring  out  some 
spirits,  handed  the  glass  to  Bill.  Bill  drained  it,  and  then 
said,  "Who  is  Miss  Masterman?" 

"Mr.  Masterman's  daughter;  that  is,  an  adopted  daughter, 
I  believe." 

"Wot  name?" 

"  I  really  don't  know,"  said  Islington  pettishly,  more 
vexed  than  he  cared  to  own  at  this  questioning. 

Yuba  Bill  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  closed  it, 
walked  back  again  to  the  door,  glanced  at  Islington,  hesi- 
tated, and  then  returned  to  his  chair. 

"I  didn't  tell  you  I  was  married — did  I?"  he  said 
suddenly,  looking  up  in  Islington's  face  with  an  unsuccess- 
ful attempt  at  a  reckless  laugh. 

"  No,"  said  Islington,  more  pained  at  the  manner  than 
the  words. 

"  Fact,"  said  Yuba  Bill.  "  Three  years  ago  it  was, 
Tommy, — three  years  ago  ! " 


Mrs.  Skaggss  Husbands.  53 

He  looked  so  hard  at  Islington  that,  feeling  he  was 
expected  to  say  something,  he  asked  vaguely,  "Who  did 
you  marry  ?  " 

"  Thet's  it !  "  said  Yuba  Bill ;  "I  can't  ezactly  say ; 
partikly,  though,  a  she-devil !  generally,  the  wife  of  half  a 
dozen  other  men." 

Accustomed,  apparently,  to  have  his  conjugal  infelicities 
a  theme  of  mirth  among  men,  and  seeing  no  trace  of  amuse- 
ment on  Islington's  grave  face,  his  dogged,  reckless  manner 
softened,  and,  drawing  his  chair  closer  to  Islington,  he  went 
on:  "It  all  began  outer  this:  we  was  coming  down  Watson's 
grade  one  night  pretty  free,  when  the  expressman  turns  to 
me  and  says,  '  There's  a  row  inside,  and  you'd  better  pull 
up ! '  I  pulls  up,  and  out  hops,  first  a  woman,  and  then 
two  or  three  chaps  swearing  and  cursin',  and  trying  to  drag 
some  one  arter  them.  Then  it  'peared,  Tommy,  thet  it 
was  this  woman's  drunken  husband  they  was  going  to  put 
out  for  abusin'  her  and  strikin'  her  in  the  coach ;  and  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  me,  my  boy,  they'd  have  left  that  chap  thar 
in  the  road.  But  I  fixes  matters  up  by  putting  her  along- 
side o'  me  on  the  box,  and  we  drove  on.  She  was  very 
white,  Tommy — for  the  matter  o'  that,  she  was  always  one 
o'  these  very  white  women,  that  never  got  red  in  the  face — 
but  she  never  cried  a  whimper.  Most  wimin  would  have 
cried.  It  was  queer,  but  she  never  cried.  I  thought  so  at 
the  time. 

"  She  was  very  tall,  with  a  lot  o'  light  hair  meandering 
down  the  back  of  her  head,  as  long  as  a  deerskin  whiplash, 
and  about  the  colour.  She  hed  eyes  thet'd  bore  you  through 
at  fifty  yards,  and  pooty  hands  and  feet.  And  when  she 
kinder  got  out  o'  that  stiff,  narvous  state  she  was  in,  and 
warmed  up  a  little,  and  got  chipper,  by  G — d,  sir,  she  was 
handsome, — she  was  that ! " 

A  little  flushed  and  embarrassed  at  his  own  enthusiasm, 


54  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

he  stopped,  and  then  said  carelessly,  "They  got  off  at 
Murphy's." 

"  Well,"  said  Islington. 

"  Well,  I  used  to  see  her  often  arter  thet,  and  when  she 
was  alone  she  allus  took  the  box-seat.  She  kinder  confided 
her  troubles  to  me,  how  her  husband  got  drunk  and  abused 
her;  and  I  didn't  see  much  o*  him,  for  he  was  away  in 
'Frisco  arter  thet.  But  it  was  all  square,  Tommy, — all 
square  'twixt  me  and  her. 

"  I  got  a  going  there  a  good  deal,  and  then  one  day  I 
sez  to  myself,  '  Bill,  this  won't  do,'  and  I  got  changed  to 
another  route.  Did  you  ever  know  Jackson  Filltree, 
Tommy  ?  "  said  Bill,  breaking  off  suddenly. 

"No." 

"  Might  have  heerd  of  him,  p'r'aps?" 

"  No,"  said  Islington  impatiently. 

"Jackson  Filltree  ran  the  express  from  White's  out  to 
Summit,  'cross  the  North  Fork  of  the  Yuba.  One  day  he 
sez  to  me,  'Bill,  that's  a  mighty  bad  ford  at  the  North 
Fork.'  I  sez,  *  I  believe  you,' Jackson.'  *  It'll  git  me  some 
day,  Bill,  sure,'  sez  he.  I  sez,  '  Why  don't  you  take  the 
lower  ford ? '  'I  don't  know/  sez  he,  ' but  I  can't.'  So 
ever  after,  when  I  met  him,  he  sez,  '  That  North  Fork  ain't 
got  me  yet.'  One  day  I  was  in  Sacramento,  and  up  comes 
Filltree.  He  sez,  '  I've  sold  out  the  express  business  on 
account  of  the  North  Fork,  but  it's  bound  to  get  me  yet, 
Bill,  sure  ; '  and  he  laughs.  Two  weeks  after  they  finds  his 
body  below  the  ford,  whar  he  tried  to  cross,  comin'  down 
from  the  Summit  way.  Folks  said  it  was  foolishness : 
Tommy,  I  sez  it  was  Fate !  The  second  day  arter  I  was 
changed  to  the  Placerville  route,  thet  woman  comes  outer  the 
hotel  above  the  stage-office.  Her  husband,  she  said,  was 
Jying  sick  in  Placerville ;  that's  what  she  said ;  but  it  was 
Fate,  Tommy,  Fate.  Three  months  afterward,  her  husband 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  55 

takes  an  overdose  of  morphine  for  delirium  tremens,  and 
dies.  There's  folks  ez  sez  she  gave  it  to  him,  but  it's  Fate. 
A  year  after  that  I  married  her,— Fate,  Tommy,  Fate  ! 

"  I  lived  with  her  jest  three  months,"  he  went  on,  after 
a  long  breath, — "  three  months  !  It  ain't  much  time  for  a 
happy  man.  I've  seen  a  good  deal  o'  hard  life  in  my  day, 
but  there  was  days  in  that  three  months  longer  than  any  day 
in  my  life, — days,  Tommy,  when  it  was  a  toss-up  whether 
I  should  kill  her  or  she  me.  But  thar,  I'm  done.  You 
are  a  young  man,  Tommy,  and  I  ain't  goin'  to  tell  things 
thet,  old  as  I  am,  three  years  ago  I  couldn't  have  believed." 

When  at  last,  with  his  grim  face  turned  toward  the  win- 
dow, he  sat  silently  with  his  clenched  hands  on  his  knees 
before  him,  Islington  asked  where  his  wife  was  now. 

"Ask  me  no  more,  my  boy, — no  more.  I've  said  my 
say."  With  a  gesture  as  of  throwing  down  a  pair  of  reins 
before  him,  he  rose,  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"  You  kin  understand,  Tommy,  why  a  little  trip  around 
the  world  'ud  do  me  good.  Ef  you  can't  go  with  me,  well 
and  good.  But  go  I  must." 

"  Not  before  luncheon,  I  hope,"  said  a  very  sweet  voice, 
as  Blanche  Masterman  suddenly  stood  before  them. 
"  Father  would  never  forgive  me  if  in  his  absence  I  per- 
mitted one  of  Mr.  Islington's  friends  to  go  in  this  way.  You 
will  stay,  won't  you  ?  Do !  And  you  will  give  me  your 
arm  now  \  and  when  Mr.  Islington  has  done  staring,  he  will 
follow  us  into  the  dining-room  and  introduce  you." 

11 1  have  quite  fallen  in  love  with  your  friend,"  said  Miss 
Blanche,  as  they  stood  in  the  drawing-room  looking  at  the 
figure  of  Bill,  strolling,  with  his  short  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
through  the  distant  shrubbery.  "  He  asks  very  queer  ques- 
tions, though.  He  wanted  to  know  my  mother's  maiden 


56  Mrs.  Skaggfs  Husbands. 

"  He  is  an  honest  fellow,"  said  Islington  gravely. 

"You  are  very  much  subdued.  You  don't  thank  me,  I 
daresay,  for  keeping  you  and  your  friend  here;  but  you 
couldn't  go,  you  know,  until  father  returned. " 

Islington  smiled,  but  not  very  gaily. 

"  And  then  I  think  it  much  better  for  us  to  part  here 
under  these  frescoes,  don't  you  ?  Good-bye." 

She  extended  her  long,  slim  hand. 

"  Out  in  the  sunlight  there,  when  my  eyes  were  red,  you 
were  very  anxious  to  look  at  me,"  she  added  in  a  dangerous 
voice. 

Islington  raised  his  sad  eyes  to  hers.  Something  glitter- 
ing upon  her  own  sweet  lashes  trembled  and  fell 

"Blanche!" 

She  was  rosy  enough  now,  and  would  have  withdrawn  her 
hand,  but  Islington  detained  it.  She  was  not  quite  certain 
but  that  her  waist  was  also  in  jeopardy.  Yet  she  could 
not  help  saying,  "  Are  you  sure  that  there  isn't  anything 
in  the  way  of  a  young  woman  that  would  keep  you  ?  " 

"  Blanche  ! "  said  Islington  in  reproachful  horror. 

"  If  gentlemen  will  roar  out  their  secrets  before  an  open 
window,  with  a  young  woman  lying  on  a  sofa  on  the  veranda, 
reading  a  stupid  French  novel,  they  must  not  be  surprised 
if  she  gives  more  attention  to  them  than  her  book." 

"  Then  you  know  all,  Blanche  ?  " 

"I  know,"  said  Blanche,  "let's  see — I  know  the  partikler 
style  of — ahem  ! — fool  you  was,  and  expected  no  better. 
Good-bye."  And,  gliding  like  a  lovely  and  innocent  milk 
snake  out  of  his  grasp,  she  slipped  away. 

To  the  pleasant  ripple  of  waves,  the  sound  of  music  and 
light  voices,  the  yellow  midsummer  moon  again  rose  over 
Greyport.  It  looked  upon  formless  masses  of  rock  and 
shrubbery,  wide  spaces  of  lawn  and  beach,  and  a  shimmer 


Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands.  57 

ing  expanse  of  water.  It  singled  out  particular  objects, — a 
white  sail  in  shore,  a  crystal  globe  upon  the  lawn,  and 
flashed  upon  something  held  between  the  teeth  of  a  crouch- 
ing figure  scaling  the  low  wall  of  Cliffwood  Lodge.  Then, 
as  a  man  and  woman  passed  out  from  under  the  shadows  of 
the  foliage  into  the  open  moonlight  of  the  garden  path,  the 
figure  leaped  from  the  wall,  and  stood  erect  and  waiting  in 
the  shadow. 

It  was  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  with  rolling  eyes,  his 
trembling  hand  grasping  a  long,  keen  knife, — a  figure  more 
pitiable  than  pitiless,  more  pathetic  than  terrible.  But  the 
next  moment  the  knife  was  stricken  from  his  hand,  and  he 
struggled  in  the  firm  grasp  of  another  figure  that  apparently 
sprang  from  the  wall  beside  him. 

"  D — n  you,  Masterman  ! "  cried  the  old  man  hoarsely ; 
"  give  me  fair  play,  and  I'll  kill  you  yet ! " 

"Which  my  name  is  Yuba  Bill,"  said  Bill  quietly,  "and 
it's  time  this  d — n  fooling  was  stopped." 

The  old  man  glared  in  Bill's  face  savagely.  "I  know 
you.  You're  one  of  Masterman's  friends, — d — n  you, — let 
me  go  till  I  cut  his  heart  out, — let  me  go !  Where  is  my 
Mary  ? — where  is  my  wife  ? — there  she  is  !  there  ! — there  ! — 
there  !  Mary  ! "  He  would  have  screamed,  but  Bill  placed 
his  powerful  hand  upon  his  mouth  as  he  turned  in  the 
direction  of  the  old  man's  glance.  Distinct  in  the  moon- 
light the  figures  of  Islington  and  Blanche,  arm-in-arm,  stood 
out  upon  the  garden  path. 

"  Give  me  my  wife  ! "  muttered  the  old  man  hoarsely 
between  Bill's  fingers.  "  Where  is  she  ?  " 

A  sudden  fury  passed  over  Yuba  Bill's  face.  "  Where  is 
your  wife  ? "  he  echoed,  pressing  the  old  man  back  against 
the  garden  wall,  and  holding  him  there  as  in  a  vice. 
"Where  is  your  wife?"  he  repeated,  thrusting  his  grim 
sardonic  jaw  and  savage  eyes  into  the  old  man's  frightened 


58  Mrs.  Skaggs's  Husbands. 

face.  "  Where  is  Jack  Adam's  wife  ?  Where  is  MY  wife  ? 
Where  is  the  she-devil  that  drove  one  man  mad,  that  sent 
another  to  hell  by  his  own  hand,  that  eternally  broke  and 
ruined  me  ?  Where  !  Where  !  Do  you  ask  where  ?  In 
jail  in  Sacramento, — in  jail,  do  you  hear? — in  jail  for 
murder,  Johnson, — murder  ! " 

The  old  man  gasped,  stiffened,  and  then,  relaxing,  suddenly 
slipped,  a  mere  inanimate  mass,  at  Yuba  Bill's  feet.  With 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  Yuba  Bill  dropped  at  his  side, 
and,  lifting  him  tenderly  in  his  arms,  whispered,  "  Look  up, 
old  man,  Johnson !  look  up,  for  God's  sake  ! — it's  me, — 
Yuba  Bill !  and  yonder  is  your  daughter,  and — Tommy — 
don't  you  know — Tommy,  little  Tommy  Islington  ?  " 

Johnson's  eyes  slowly  opened.  He  whispered,  "Tommy! 
yes,  Tommy !  Sit  by  me,  Tommy.  But  don't  sit  so  near 
the  bank.  Don't  you  see  how  the  river  is  rising  and 
beckoning  to  me — hissing,  and  boilin'  over  the  rocks? 
It's  gittin'  higher  ! — hold  me,  Tommy, — hold  me,  and  don't 
let  me  go  yet.  We'll  live  to  cut  his  heart  out,  Tommy, — 
we'll  live— we'll " 

His  head  sank,  and  the  rushing  river,  invisible  to  all  eyes 
save  his,  leaped  toward  him  out  of  the  darkness,  and  bore 
him  away,  no  longer  to  the  darkness,  but  through  it  to  the 
distant,  peaceful,  shining  sea. 


(    59     ) 


(ZEpteotie  of  jTi 


IN  1858  Fiddletown  considered  her  a  very  pretty  woman. 
She  had  a  quantity  of  light  chestnut  hair,  a  good  figure,  a 
dazzling  complexion,  and  a  certain  languid  grace  which 
passed  easily  for  gentlewomanliness.  She  always  dressed 
becomingly,  and  in  what  Fiddletown  accepted  as  the  latest 
fashion.  She  had  only  two  blemishes  :  one  of  her  velvety 
eyes,  when  examined  closely,  had  a  slight  cast,  and  her  left 
cheek  bore  a  small  scar  left  by  a  single  drop  of  vitriol  — 
happily  the  only  drop  of  an  entire  phial  thrown  upon  her 
by  one  of  her  own  jealous  sex  that  reached  the  pretty  face 
it  was  intended  to  mar.  But  when  the  observer  had  studied 
the  eyes  sufficiently  to  notice  this  defect,  he  was  generally 
incapacitated  for  criticism,  and  even  the  scar  on  her  cheek 
was  thought  by  some  to  add  piquancy  to  her  smile.  The 
youthful  editor  of  the  Fiddletown  "  Avalanche"  had  said 
privately  that  it  was  "  an  exaggerated  dimple."  Colonel 
Starbottle  was  instantly  "  reminded  of  the  beautifying 
patches  of  the  days  of  Queen  Anne,  but  more  particularly, 
sir,  of  the  blankest  beautiful  women,  that,  blank  you,  you 
ever  laid  your  two  blank  eyes  upon.  A  Creole  woman,  sir,  in 
New  Orleans.  And  this  woman  had  a  scar  —  a  line  extend- 
ing, blank  me,  from  her  eye  to  her  blank  chin.  And  this 
woman,  sir,  thrilled  you,  sir,  maddened  you,  sir,  absolutely 
sent  your  blank  soul  to  perdition  with  her  blank  fascination. 
And  one  day  I  said  to  her,  '  Celeste,  how  in  blank  did  you 


60  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

come  by  that  beautiful  scar,  blank  you  ? '  And  she  said  to 
me,  *  Star,  there  isn't  another  white  man  that  I'd  confide 
in  but  you,  but  I  made  that  scar  myself,  purposely,  I  did, 
blank  me."  These  were  her  very  words,  sir,  and  perhaps 
you  think  it  a  blank  lie,  sir,  but  I'll  put  up  any  blank  sum 
you  can  name  and  prove  it,  blank  me." 

Indeed,  most  of  the  male  population  of  Fiddletown  were 
or  had  been  in  love  with  her.  Of  this  number  about  one- 
half  believed  that  their  love  was  returned,  with  the  excep- 
tion, possibly,  of  her  own  husband.  He  alone  had  been 
known  to  express  scepticism. 

The  name  of  the  gentleman  who  enjoyed  this  infelicitous 
distinction  was  Tretherick.  He  had  been  divorced  from 
an  excellent  wife  to  marry  this  Fiddletown  enchantress. 
She  also  had  been  divorced,  but  it  was  hinted  that  some 
previous  experiences  of  hers  in  that  legal  formality  had  made 
it  perhaps  less  novel  and  probably  less  sacrificial.  I  would 
not  have  it  inferred  from  this  that  she  was  deficient  in 
sentiment  or  devoid  of  its  highest  moral  expression.  Her 
intimate  friend  had  written  (on  the  occasion  of  her  second 
divorce),  "The  cold  world  does  not  understand  Clara  yet," 
and  Colonel  Starbottle  had  remarked,  blankly,  that  with  the 
exception  of  a  single  woman  in  Opelousas  Parish,  Louisiana, 
she  had  more  soul  than  the  whole  caboodle  of  them  put 
together.  Few  indeed  could  read  those  lines  entitled 
"  Infelissimus,"  commencing,  "  Why  waves  no  cypress  o'er 
this  brow,"  originally  published  in  the  "Avalanche "  over 
the  signature  of  "  The  Lady  Clare,"  without  feeling  the  tear 
of  sensibility  tremble  on  his  eyelids,  or  the  glow  of  virtuous 
indignation  mantle  his  cheek  at  the  low  brutality  and  piti- 
able jocularity  of  the  "  Dutch  Flat  Intelligencer,"  which  the 
next  week  had  suggested  the  exotic  character  of  the  cypress 
and  its  entire  absence  from  Fiddletown  as  a  reasonable 
answer  to  the  query. 


An  Episode  of  Fiddle  town.  61 

Indeed,  it  was  this  tendency  to  elaborate  her  feelings  in 
a  metrical  manner,  and  deliver  them  to  the  cold  world 
through  the  medium  of  the  newspapers,  that  first  attracted 
the  attention  of  Tretherick.  Several  poems  descriptive  of 
the  effects  of  California  scenery  upon  a  too  sensitive  soul, 
and  of  the  vague  yearnings  for  the  infinite  which  an  en- 
forced study  of  the  heartlessness  of  California  society  pro- 
duced in  the  poetic  breast,  impressed  Mr.  Tretherick,  who 
was  then  driving  a  six-mule  freight  waggon  between  Knight's 
Ferry  and  Stockton,  to  seek  out  the  unknown  poetess. 
Mr.  Tretherick  was  himself  dimly  conscious  of  a  certain 
hidden  sentiment  in  his  own  nature,  and  it  is  possible  that 
some  reflections  on  the  vanity  of  his  pursuit — he  supplied 
several  mining  camps  with  whisky  and  tobacco — in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  dreariness  of  the  dusty  plain  on  which  he 
habitually  drove,  may  have  touched  some  chord  in  sym- 
pathy with  this  sensitive  woman.  Howbeit,  after  a  brief 
courtship — as  brief  as  was  consistent  with  some  previous 
legal  formalities — they  were  married,  and  Mr.  Tretherick 
brought  his  blushing  bride  to  Fiddletown,  or  "  Fideletown," 
as  Mrs.  T.  preferred  to  call  it  in  her  poems. 

The  union  was  not  a  felicitous  one.  It  was  not  long 
before  Mr.  Tretherick  discovered  that  the  sentiment  he  had 
fostered  while  freighting  between  Stockton  and  Knight's 
Ferry  was  different  from  that  which  his  wife  had  evolved 
from  the  contemplation  of  California  scenery  and  her  own 
soul.  Being  a  man  of  imperfect  logic,  this  caused  him  to 
beat  her,  and  she,  being  equally  faulty  in  deduction,  was 
impelled  to  a  certain  degree  of  unfaithfulness  on  the  same 
premise.  Then  Mr.  Tretherick  began  to  drink,  and  Mrs.  T. 
to  contribute  regularly  to  the  columns  of  the  "Avalanche."  It 
was  at  this  time  that  Colonel  Starbottle  discovered  a  simila- 
rity in  Mrs.  T.'s  verse  to  the  genius  of  Sappho,  and  pointed 
it  out  to  the  citizens  of  Fiddletown  in  a  two-columned 


62  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

criticism,  signed  "  A.  S.,"  also  published  in  th'e  "  Avalanche  * 
and  supported  by  extensive  quotation.  As  the  "  Avalanche  " 
did  not  possess  a  font  of  Greek  type,  the  editor  was  obliged 
to  reproduce  the  Leucadian  numbers  in  the  ordinary  Roman 
letter,  to  the  intense  disgust  of  Colonel  Starbottle,  and  the 
vast  delight  of  Fiddletown,  who  saw  fit  to  accept  the  text  as 
an  excellent  imitation  of  Choctaw — a  language  with  which  the 
Colonel,  as  a  whilom  resident  of  the  Indian  territories,  was 
supposed  to  be  familiar.  Indeed,  the  next  week's  "  Intelli- 
gencer "  contained  some  vile  doggerel,  supposed  to  be  an 
answer  to  Mrs.  T.'s  poem,  ostensibly  written  by  the  wife  of 
a  Digger  Indian  chief,  accompanied  by  a  glowing  eulogium 
signed  "A.  S.  S." 

The  result  of  this  jocularity  was  briefly  given  in  a  later 
copy  of  the  "  Avalanche."  "  An  unfortunate  rencontre  took 
place  on  Monday  last  between  the  Hon.  Jackson  Flash,  of 
the  '  Dutch  Flat  Intelligencer,'  and  the  well-known  Colonel 
Starbottle  of  this  place,  in  front  of  the  Eureka  Saloon.  Two 
shots  were  fired  by  the  parties  without  injury  to  either,  al- 
though it  is  said  that  a  passing  Chinaman  received  fifteen 
buckshot  in  the  calves  of  his  legs  from  the  Colonel's  double- 
barrelled  shotgun  which  were  not  intended  for  him.  John 
will  learn  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  Melican  man's  firearms 
hereafter.  The  cause  of  the  affray  is  not  known,  although 
it  is  hinted  that  there  is  a  lady  in  the  case.  The  rumour 
that  points  to  a  well-known  and  beautiful  poetess  whose 
lucubrations  have  often  graced  our  columns,  seems  to  gain 
credence  from  those  that  are  posted." 

Meanwhile  the  passiveness  displayed  by  Tretherick  under 
these  trying  circumstances  was  fully  appreciated  in  the 
gulches.  "The  old  man's  head  is  level,"  said  one  long- 
booted  philosopher.  "  Ef  the  Colonel  kills  Flash,  Mrs. 
Tretherick  is  avenged  ;  if  Flash  drops  the  Colonel,  Trethe- 
rick is  all  right.  Either  way  he's  got  a  sure  thing."  During 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  63 

this  delicate  condition  of  affairs  Mrs.  Tretherick  one  day 
left  her  husband's  home  and  took  refuge  at  the  Fiddletown 
Hotel,  with  only  the  clothes  she  had  on  her  back.  Here 
she  stayed  for  several  weeks,  during  which  period  it  is  only 
justice  to  say  that  she  bore  herself  with  the  strictest  pro- 
priety. 

It  was  a  clear  morning  in  early  spring  that  Mrs.  Tretherick, 
unattended,  left  the  hotel  and  walked  down  the  narrow 
street  toward  the  fringe  of  dark  pines  which  indicated  the 
extreme  limits  of  Fiddletown.  The  few  loungers  at  that 
early  hour  were  preoccupied  with  the  departure  of  the 
Wingdam  coach  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  street,  and 
Mrs.  Tretherick  reached  the  suburbs  of  the  settlement  with- 
out discomposing  observation.  Here  she  took  a  cross  street 
or  road  running  at  right  angles  with  the  main  thoroughfare 
of  Fiddletown,  and  passing  through  a  belt  of  woodland.  It 
was  evidently  the  exclusive  and  aristocratic  avenue  of  the 
town ;  the  dwellings  were  few,  ambitious,  and  uninterrupted 
by  shops.  And  here  she  was  joined  by  Colonel  Starbottle. 

The  gallant  Colonel,  notwithstanding  that  he  bore  the 
swelling  port  which  usually  distinguished  him — that  his  coat 
was  tightly  buttoned  and  his  boots  tightly  fitting,  and  that 
his  cane,  hooked  over  his  arm,  swung  jauntily — was  not 
entirely  at  his  ease.  Mrs.  Tretherick,  however,  vouchsafed 
him  a  gracious  smile  and  a  glance  of  her  dangerous  eyes, 
and  the  Colonel,  with  an  embarrassed  cough  a"nd  a  slight 
strut,  took  his  place  at  her  side. 

"The  coast  is  clear,"  said  the  Colonel,  "and  Tretherick 
is  over  at  Dutch  Flat  on  a  spree ;  there  is  no  one  in  the 
house  but  a  Chinaman,  and  you  need  fear  no  trouble  from 
him.  /,"  he  continued,  with  a  slight  inflation  of  the  chest 
that  imperilled  the  security  of  his  button, — "  I  will  see  that 
you  are  protected  in  the  removal  of  your  property." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  you,  and  so  disinterested," 


64  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

simpered  the  lady  as  they  walked  along.  "  It's  so  pleasant 
to  meet  some  one  who  has  soul — some  one  to  sympathise 
with  in  a  community  so  hardened  and  heartless  as  this." 
And  Mrs.  Tretherick  cast  down  her  eyes,  but  not  until  they 
had  wrought  their  perfect  and  accepted  work  upon  her 
companion. 

"Yes,  certainly,  of  course,"  said  the  Colonel,  glancing 
nervously  up  and  down  the  street ;  "  yes,  certainly."  Per- 
ceiving, however,  that  there  was  no  one  in  sight  or  hearing, 
he  proceeded  at  once  to  inform  Mrs.  Tretherick  that  the 
great  trouble  of  his  life,  in  fact,  had  been  the  possession  of 
too  much  soul.  That  many  women — as  a  gentleman  she 
would  excuse  him,  of  course,  from  mentioning  names — but 
many  beautiful  women  had  often  sought  his  society,  but, 
being  deficient,  madam,  absolutely  deficient  in  this  quality, 
he  could  not  reciprocate.  But  when  two  natures  thoroughly 
in  sympathy — despising  alike  the  sordid  trammels  of  a  low 
and  vulgar  community  and  the  conventional  restraints  of  a 
hypocritical  society — when  two  souls  in  perfect  accord  met 
and  mingled  in  poetical  union,  then — but  here  the  Colonel's 
speech,  which  had  been  remarkable  for  a  certain  whisky- 
and-watery  fluency,  grew  husky,  almost  inaudible,  and 
decidedly  incoherent.  Possibly  Mrs.  Tretherick  may  have 
heard  something  like  it  before,  and  was  enabled  to  fill  the 
hiatus.  Nevertheless,  the  cheek  that  was  on  the  side  of  the 
Colonel  was  quite  virginal  and  bashfully  conscious  until  they 
reached  their  destination. 

It  was  a  pretty  little  cottage,  quite  fresh  and  warm  with 
paint,  very  pleasantly  relieved  against  a  platoon  of  pines, 
some  of  whose  foremost  files  had  been  displaced  to  give 
freedom  to  the  fenced  enclosure  in  which  it  sat.  In  the 
vivid  sunlight  and  perfect  silence  it  had  a  new,  uninhabited 
look,  as  if  the  carpenters  and  painters  had  just  left  it.  At 
the  farther  end  of  the  lot  a  Chinaman  was  stolidly  digging, 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  65 

but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  occupancy.  "  The  coast," 
as  the  Colonel  had  said,  was  indeed  "clear."  Mrs. 
Tretherick  paused  at  the  gate.  The  Colonel  would  have 
entered  with  her,  but  was  stopped  by  a  gesture.  "  Come 
for  me  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  shall  have  everything 
packed,"  she  said,  as  she  smiled  and  extended  her  hand. 
The  Colonel  seized  and  pressed  it  with  great  fervour.  Per- 
haps the  pressure  was  slightly  returned,  for  the  gallant 
Colonel  was  impelled  to  inflate  his  chest  and  trip  away  as 
smartly  as  his  stubby-toed,  high-heeled  boots  would  permit. 
When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Tretherick  opened  the  door, 
listened  a  moment  in  the  deserted  hall,  and  then  ran 
quickly  upstairs  to  what  had  been  her  bedroom. 

Everything  there  was  unchanged  as  on  the  night  she 
left  it.  On  the  dressing-table  stood  her  bandbox,  as  she 
remembered  to  have  left  it  when  she  took  out  her  bonnet. 
On  the  mantel  lay  the  other  glove  she  had  forgotten  in 
her  flight.  The  two  lower  drawers  of  the  bureau  were 
half  open — she  had  forgotten  to  shut  them — and  on  its 
marble  top  lay  her  shawl  pin  and  a  soiled  cuff.  What  other 
recollections  came  upon  her  I  know  not,  but  she  suddenly 
grew  quite  white,  shivered,  and  listened  with  a  beating 
heart  and  her  hand  upon  the  door.  Then  she  stepped  to 
the  mirror,  and  half  fearfully,  half  curiously,  parted  with  her 
fingers  the  braids  of  her  blonde  hair  above  her  little  pink 
ear,  until  she  came  upon  an  ugly,  half-healed  scar.  She 
gazed  at  this,  moving  her  pretty  head  up  and  down  to  get 
a  better  light  upon  it,  until  the  slight  cast  in  her  velvety 
eyes  became  very  strongly  marked  indeed.  Then  she 
turned  away  with  a  light,  reckless,  foolish  laugh,  and 
ran  to  the  closet  where  hung  her  precious  dresses.  These 
she  inspected  nervously,  and  missing  suddenly  a  favourite 
black  silk  from  its  accustomed  peg  for  a  moment,  thought 
she  should  have  fainted.  But  discovering  it  the  next 

VOL.  III.  E 


66  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

instant,  lying  upon  a  trunk  where  she  had  thrown  it,  a 
feeiing  of  thankfulness  to  a  Superior  Being  who  protects 
the  friendless  for  the  first  time  sincerely  thrilled  her. 
Then,  albeit  she  was  hurried  for  time,  she  could  not  resist 
trying  the  effect  of  a  certain  lavender  neck-ribbon  upon  the 
dress  she  was  then  wearing  before  the  mirror.  And  then 
suddenly  she  became  aware  of  a  child's  voice  close  beside 
her  and  she  stopped.  And  then  the  child's  voice  repeated, 
"  Is  it  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Tretherick  faced  quickly  about.  Standing  in  the 
doorway  was  a  little  girl  of  six  or  seven.  Her  dress  had 
been  originally  fine,  but  was  torn  and  dirty,  and  her  hair, 
which  was  a  very  violent  red,  was  tumbled  serio-comically 
about  her  forehead.  For  all  this  she  was  a  picturesque 
little  thing,  even  through  whose  childish  timidity  there  was 
a  certain  self-sustained  air  which  is  apt  to  come  upon 
children  who  are  left  much  to  themselves.  She  was  holding 
under  her  arm  a  rag  doll,  apparently  of  her  own  workman- 
ship and  nearly  as  large  as  herself — a  doll  with  a  cylindrical 
head  and  features  roughly  indicated  with  charcoal  A  long 
shawl,  evidently  belonging  to  a  grown  person,  dropped  from 
her  shoulders  and  swept  the  floor. 

The  spectacle  did  not  excite  Mrs.  Tretherick's  delight. 
Perhaps  she  had  but  a  small  sense  of  humour.  Certainly, 
when  the  child,  still  standing  in  the  doorway,  again  asked, 
"  Is  it  mamma  ?  "  she  answered  sharply,  "  No,  it  isn't/'  and 
turned  a  severe  look  upon  the  intruder. 

The  child  retreated  a  step,  and  then,  gaining  courage 
with  the  distance,  said,  in  deliciously  imperfect  speech — 

"  Dow  'way,  then  ;  why  don't  you  dow  away  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Tretherick  was  eyeing  the  shawl.  Suddenly  she 
whipped  it  off  the  child's  shoulders  and  said  angrily — 

"  How  dared  you  take  my  things,  you  bad  child  ?  " 

"  Is  it  yours  ?      Then  you  are  my  mamma  !  ain't  you  ? 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  67 

You  are  mamma ! "  she  continued  gleefully,  and  before 
Mrs.  Tretherick  could  avoid  her  she  had  dropped  her  doll, 
and,  catching  the  woman's  skirts  with  both  hands,  was 
dancing  up  and  down  before  her. 

"What's  your  name,  child?"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick 
coldly,  removing  the  small  and  not  very  white  hands  from 
her  garments. 

"  Tarry." 

"  Tarry  ?  " 

"  Yeth.    Tarry.     Tarowline." 

«  Caroline  ?  " 

"  Yeth.     Tarowline  Tretherick." 

"  Whose  child  are  you  ?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Tretherick  still 
more  coldly,  to  keep  down  a  rising  fear. 

"  Why,  yours,"  said  the  little  creature  with  a  laugh.  "  I'm 
your  little  durl.  You're  my  mamma — my  new  mamma — 
don't  you  know  my  ole  mamma's  dorn  away,  never  to  turn 
back  any  more.  I  don't  live  wid  my  ole  mamma  now.  I 
live  wid  you  and  papa." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  "  asked  Mrs.  Tretherick 
snappishly. 

"  I  think  it's  free  days,"  said  Carry  reflectively. 

"You  think  !  don't  you  know?"  sneered  Mrs.  Tretherick. 
"  Then  where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

Carry's  lip  began  to  work  under  this  sharp  cross-exami- 
nation. With  a  great  effort  and  a  small  gulp  she  got  the 
better  of  it,  and  answered — 

"Papa — papa  fetched  me — from  Miss  Simmons — from 
Sacramento,  last  week." 

"  Last  week  !  you  said  three  days  just  now,"  returned 
Mrs.  Tretherick  with  severe  deliberation. 

1  "  I  mean  a  monf,"  said  Carry,  now  utterly  adrift  in  sheer 
helplessness  and  confusion. 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about  ?  "  demanded 


68  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

Mrs.  T.  shrilly,  restraining  an  impulse  to  shake  the  little 
figure  before  her  and  precipitate  the  truth  by  specific 
gravity. 

But  the  flaming  red  head  here  suddenly  disappeared  in 
the  folds  of  Mrs.  Tretherick's  dress,  as  if  it  were  trying  to 
extinguish  itself  for  ever. 

"  There  now,  stop  that  sniffling,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick, 
extricating  her  dress  from  the  moist  embraces  of  the  child, 
and  feeling  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  "  Wipe  your  face 
now  and  run  away  and  don't  bother.  Stop,"  she  continued, 
as  Carry  moved  away,  "where's  your  papa?  " 

"  He's  dorn  away  too.  He's  sick.  He's  been  dorn  " — 
she  hesitated — "two — free — days." 

"Who  takes  care  of  you,  child?"  said  Mrs.  T.,  eyeing 
her  curiously. 

"John,  the  Chinaman.  I  tresses  myselth;  John  tooks 
and  makes  the  beds." 

"Well,  now,  run  away  and  behave  yourself,  and  don't 
bother  me  any  more,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick,  remembering 
the  object  of  her  visit.  "  Stop,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  she 
added,  as  the  child  began  to  ascend  the  stairs,  dragging 
the  long  doll  after  her  by  one  helpless  leg. 

"  Doin'  upstairs  to  play  and  be  dood,  and  not  bother 
mamma." 

"I  ain't  your  mamma,"  shouted  Mrs.  Tretherick,  and 
then  she  swiftly  re-entered  her  bedroom  and  slammed  the 
door. 

Once  inside,  she  drew  forth  a  large  trunk  from  the  closet, 
and  set  to  work  with  querulous  and  fretful  haste  to  pack 
her  wardrobe.  She  tore  her  best  dress  in  taking  it  from 
the  hook  on  which  it  hung  ;  she  scratched  her  soft  hands 
twice  with  an  ambushed  pin.  All  the  while  she  kept  up 
an  indignant  commentary  on  the  events  of  the  past  few 
moments.  She  said  to  herself  she  saw  it  all.  Tretherick 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  69 

had  sent  for  this  child  of  his  first  wife — this  child  of  whose 
existence  he  had  never  seemed  to  care — just  to  insult  her 
— to  fill  her  place.  Doubtless  the  first  wife  herself  would 
follow  soon,  or  perhaps  there  would  be  a  third.  Red  hair 
— not  auburn,  but  red — of  course  the  child — this  Caroline 
— looked  like  its  mother,  and  if  so  she  was  anything  but 
pretty.  Or  the  whole  thing  had  been  prepared — this  red- 
haired  child — the  image  of  its  mother — had  been  kept  at 
a  convenient  distance  at  Sacramento,  ready  to  be  sent  for 
when  needed.  She  remembered  his  occasional  visits  there 
— on  business,  as  he  said.  Perhaps  the  mother  already 
was  there — but  no — she  had  gone  East.  Nevertheless 
Mrs.  Tretherick,  in  her  then  state  of  mind,  preferred  to 
dwell  upon  the  fact  that  she  might  be  there.  She  was 
dimly  conscious  also  of  a  certain  satisfaction  in  exaggerating 
her  feelings.  Surely  no  woman  had  ever  been  so  shame- 
fully abused.  In  fancy  she  sketched  a  picture  of  herself 
sitting  alone  and  deserted,  at  sunset,  among  the  fallen 
columns  of  a  ruined  temple,  in  a  melancholy  yet  graceful 
attitude,  while  her  husband  drove  rapidly  away  in  a  luxu- 
rious coach  and  four,  with  a  red-haired  woman  at  his  side. 
Sitting  upon  the  trunk  she  had  just  packed,  she  partly 
composed  a  lugubrious  poem,  describing  her  sufferings  as, 
wandering  alone  and  poorly  clad,  she  came  upon  her  husband 
and  "  another  "  flaunting  in  silks  and  diamonds.  She  pic- 
tured herself  dying  of  consumption,  brought  on  by  sorrow — 
a  beautiful  wreck,  yet  still  fascinating,  gazed  upon  adoringly 
by  the  editor  of  the  "  Avalanche  "  and  Colonel  Starbottle. 
And  where  was  Colonel  Starbottle  all  this  while?  why 
didn't  he  come  ?  He  at  least  understood  her.  He — she 
laughed  the  reckless,  light  laugh  of  a  few  moments  before, 
and  then  her  face  suddenly  grew  grave,  as  it  had  not  a  few 
moments  before. 

What  was  that  little  red-haired  imp  doing  all  this  time  ? 


7o  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

Why  was  she  so  quiet  ?  She  opened  the  door  noiselessly 
and  listened.  She  fancied  that  she  heard,  above  the  multi- 
tudinous small  noises  and  creakings  and  warpings  of  the 
vacant  house,  a  smaller  voice  singing  on  the  floor  above. 
This,  as  she  remembered,  was  only  an  open  attic  that  had 
been  used  as  a  store-room.  With  a  half-guilty  conscious- 
ness she  crept  softly  upstairs,  and,  pushing  the  door  partly 
open,  looked  within. 

Athwart  the  long,  low-studded  attic  a  slant  sunbeam 
from  a  single  small  window  lay,  filled  with  dancing  motes 
and  only  half  illuminating  the  barren,  dreary  apartment. 
In  the  ray  of  this  sunbeam  she  saw  the  child's  glowing  hair, 
as  if  crowned  by  a  red  aureole,  as  she  sat  upon  the  floor 
with  her  exaggerated  doll  between  her  knees.  She  appeared 
to  be  talking  to  it,  and  it  was  not  long  before  Mrs. 
Tretherick  observed  that  she  was  rehearsing  the  interview 
of  a  half-hour  before.  She  catechised  the  doll  severely, 
cross-examining  it  in  regard  to  the  duration  of  its  stay  there, 
and  generally  on  the  measure  of  time.  The  imitation  of 
Mrs.  T.'s  manner  was  exceedingly  successful,  and  the  con- 
versation almost  a  literal  reproduction,  with  a  single  excep- 
tion. After  she  had  informed  the  doll  that  she  was  not  her 
mother,  at  the  close  of  the  interview  she  added  pathetically, 
"That  if  she  was  dood — very  dood — she  might  be  her 
mamma  and  love  her  very  much." 

I  have  already  hinted  that  Mrs.  Tretherick  was  deficient 
in  a  sense  of  humour.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this  reason  that 
this  whole  scene  affected  her  most  unpleasantly,  and  the 
conclusion  sent  the  blood  tingling  to  her  cheek.  There 
was  something,  too,  inconceivably  lonely  in  the  situation ; 
the  unfurnished  vacant  room,  the  half  light,  the  monstrous 
doll,  whose  very  size  seemed  to  give  a  pathetic  significance 
to  its  speechlessness,  the  smallness  of  the  one  animate  self- 
centred  figure — all  these  touched  more  or  less  deeply  the 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  71 

half-poetic  sensibilities  of  the  woman.  She  could  not  help 
utilising  the  impression  as  she  stood  there,  and  thought 
what  a  fine  poem  might  be  constructed  from  this  material, 
if  the  room  were  a  little  darker,  the  child  lonelier — say,  sit- 
ting beside  a  dead  mother's  bier  and  the  wind  wailing  in 
the  turrets.  And  then  she  suddenly  heard  footsteps  at  the 
door  below,  and  recognised  the  tread  of  the  Colonel's  cane. 

She  flew  swiftly  down  the  stairs  and  encountered  the 
Colonel  in  the  hall.  Here  she  poured  into  his  astonished 
ear  a  voluble  and  exaggerated  statement  of  her  discovery 
and  indignant  recital  of  her  wrongs.  "  Don't  tell  me  the 
whole  thing  wasn't  arranged  beforehand;  for  I  know  it 
was  ! "  she  almost  screamed.  "  And  think,"  she  added, 
"  of  the  heartlessness  of  the  wretch — leaving  his  own  child 
alone  here  in  that  way." 

"  It's  a  blank  shame ! "  stammered  the  Colonel,  without 
the  least  idea  of  what  he  was  talking  about.  In  fact,  utterly 
unable  as  he  was  to  comprehend  a  reason  for  the  woman's 
excitement  with  his  estimate  of  her  character,  I  fear  he 
showed  it  more  plainly  than  he  intended.  He  stammered, 
expanded  his  chest,  looked  stern,  gallant,  tender,  but  all 
unintelligently.  Mrs.  Tretherick  for  an  instant  experienced 
a  sickening  doubt  of  the  existence  of  natures  in  perfect 
affinity. 

"  It's  of  no  use,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick  with  sudden 
vehemence,  in  answer  to  some  inaudible  remark  of  the 
Colonel's,  and  withdrawing  her  hand  from  the  fervent  grasp 
of  that  ardent  and  sympathetic  man.  "It's  of  no  use;  my 
mind  is  made  up.  You  can  send  for  my  trunk  as  soon  as 
you  like,  but  /  shall  stay  here  and  confront  that  man  with 
the  proof  of  his  vileneoS.  I  will  put  him  face  to  face  with 
his  infamy." 

I  do  not  know  whether  Colonel  Starbottle  thoroughly 
appreciated  the  convincing  proof  of  Tretherick's  unfaithful- 


72  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

ness  and  malignity  afforded  by  the  damning  evidence  of  the 
existence  of  Tretherick's  own  child  in  his  own  house.  He 
was  dimly  aware,  however,  of  some  unforeseen  obstacle  to 
the  perfect  expression  of  the  infinite  longing  of  his  own 
sentimental  nature.  But  before  he  could  say  anything, 
Carry  appeared  on  the  landing  above  them,  looking  timidly 
and  yet  half-critically  at  the  pair. 

"That's  her,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick  excitedly.  In  her 
deepest  emotions,  either  in  verse  or  prose,  she  rose  above 
a  consideration  of  grammatical  construction. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  Colonel,  with  a  sudden  assumption  of 
parental  affection  and  jocularity  that  was  glaringly  unreal 
and  affected.  "  Ah  !  pretty  little  girl,  pretty  little  girl ! 
how  do  you  do?  how  are  you?  you  find  yourself  pretty 
well,  do  you,  pretty  little  girl?"  The  Colonel's  impulse 
also  was  to  expand  his  chest  and  swing  his  cane,  until  it 
occurred  to  him  that  this  action  might  be  ineffective  with 
a  child  of  six  or  seven.  Carry,  however,  took  no  immediate 
notice  of  this  advance,  but  further  discomposed  the  chival- 
rous Colonel  by  running  quickly  to  Mrs.  Tretherick,  and 
hiding  herself,  as  if  for  protection,  in  the  folds  of  her  gown. 
Nevertheless,  the  Colonel  was  not  vanquished.  Falling 
back  into  an  attitude  of  respectful  admiration,  he  pointed 
out  a  marvellous  resemblance  to  the  "  Madonna  and  Child." 
Mrs.  Tretherick  simpered,  but  did  not  dislodge  Carry  as 
before.  There  was  an  awkward  pause  for  a  moment,  and 
then  Mrs.  Tretherick,  motioning  significantly  to  the  child, 
said  in  a  whisper,  "  Go,  now.  Don't  come  here  again, 
but  meet  me  to-night  at  the  hotel."  She  extended  her 
hand;  the  Colonel  bent  over  it  gallantly,  and  raising  his 
hat,  the  next  moment  was  gone. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick,  with  an  embar- 
fissed  voice  and  a  prodigious  blush,  looking  down  and 
addressing  the  fiery  curls  just  visible  in  the  folds  of  her 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  73 

dress, — "  do  you  think  you  will  be  '  dood '  if  I  let  you  stay 
in  here  and  sit  with  me  ?  " 

"And  let  me  call  you  mamma?"  queried  Carry,looking  up. 

"  And  let  you  call  me  mamma  ! "  assented  Mrs.  Tretheiick 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"  Yeth,"  said  Carry  promptly. 

They  entered  the  bedroom  together.  Carry's  eye  instantly 
caught  sight  of  the  trunk. 

"  Are  you  dowin'  away  adain,  mamma  ? "  she  said  with 
a  quick,  nervous  look,  and  a  clutch  at  the  woman's 
dress. 

"  No-o,"  said  Mrs.  Tretherick,  looking  out  of  the  window. 

"  Only  playing  you're  dowin'  away,"  suggested  Carry  with 
a  laugh.  "  Let  me  play  too." 

Mrs.  T.  assented.  Carry  flew  into  the  next  room,  and 
presently  reappeared,  dragging  a  small  trunk,  into  which 
she  gravely  proceeded  to  pack  her  clothes.  Mrs.  T. 
noticed  that  they  were  not  many.  A  question  or  two 
regarding  them  brought  out  some  further  replies  from  the 
child,  and  before  many  minutes  had  elapsed  Mrs.  Tre- 
therick was  in  possession  of  all  her  earlier  history.  But 
to  do  this  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  been  obliged  to  take 
Carry  upon  her  lap,  pending  the  most  confidential  dis- 
closures. They  sat  thus  a  long  time  after  Mrs.  Tretherick 
had  apparently  ceased  to  be  interested  in  Carry's  dis- 
closures, and,  when  lost  in  thought,  she  allowed  the  child 
to  rattle  on  unheeded,  and  ran  her  fingers  through  the 
scarlet  curls. 

"  You  don't  hold  me  right,  mamma,"  said  Carry  at  last, 
after  one  or  two  uneasy  shiftings  of  position. 

"  How  should  I  hold  you  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Tretherick  with 
a  half-amused,  half-embarrassed  laugh. 

"This  way,"  said  Carry,  curling  up  into  position  with  one 
arm  around  Mrs.  Tretherick's  neck  and  her  cheek  resting 


74  -An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

on  her  bosom  ;  "this  way — there  !"  After  a  little  prepara- 
tory nestling,  not  unlike  some  small  animal,  she  closed  her 
eyes  and  went  to  sleep. 

For  a  few  moments  the  woman  sat  silent,  scarcely  daring 
to  breathe,  in  that  artificial  attitude.'  And  then,  whether 
from  some  occult  sympathy  in  the  touch,  or  God  best  knows 
what,  a  sudden  fancy  began  to  thrill  her.  She  began  by 
remembering  an  old  pain  that  she  had  forgotten,  an  old 
horror  that  she  had  resolutely  put  away  all  these  years. 
She  recalled  days  of  sickness  and  distrust,  days  of  an  over- 
shadowing fear,  days  of  preparation  for  something  that  was 
to  be  prevented — that  was  prevented,  with  mortal  agony 
and  fear.  She  thought  of  a  life  that  might  have  been — 
she  dared  not  say  had  been — and  wondered !  It  was  six 
years  ago ;  if  it  had  lived  it  would  have  been  as  old  as 
Carry.  The  arms  which  were  folded  loosely  around  the 
sleeping  child  began  to  tremble  and  tighten  their  clasp. 
And  then  the  deep  potential  impulse  came,  and  with  a  half- 
sob,  half-sigh,  she  threw  her  arms  out  and  drew  the  body 
of  the  sleeping  child  down,  down  into  her  breast,  down 
again  and  again  as  if  she  would  hide  it  in  the  grave  dug 
there  years  before.  And  the  gust  that  shook  her  passed, 
and  then,  ah  me  !  the  rain. 

A  drop  or  two  fell  upon  the  curls  of  Carry,  and  she 
moved  uneasily  in  her  sleep.  But  the  woman  soothed 
her  again — it  was  so  easy  to  do  it  now — and  they  sat  there 
quiet  and  undisturbed — so  quiet  that  they  might  have 
seemed  incorporate  of  the  lonely  silent  house,  the  slowly 
declining  sunbeams,  and  the  general  air  of  desertion  and 
abandonment,  yet  a  desertion  that  had  in  it  nothing  of  age, 
decay,  or  despair. 

Colonel  Starbottle  waited  at  the  Fiddletown  Hotel  all 
that  night  in  vain.  And  the  next  morning,  when  Mr 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  75 

Tretherick  returned   to   his  husks,   he    found   the  house 
vacant  and  untenanted  except  by  motes  and  sunbeams. 

When  it  was  fairly  known  that  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  run 
away,  taking  Mr.  Tretherick's  own  child  with  her,  there  was 
some  excitement  and  much  diversity  of  opinion  in  Fiddle- 
town.  The  "  Dutch  Flat  Intelligencer  "  openly  alluded  to 
the  "  forcible  abduction "  of  the  child  with  the  same 
freedom  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  the  same  prejudice  with 
which  it  had  criticised  the  abductor's  poetry.  All  of  Mrs. 
Tretherick's  own  sex,  and  perhaps  a  few  of  the  opposite 
sex  whose  distinctive  quality  was  not,  however,  very  strongly 
indicated,  fully  coincided  in  the  views  of  the  "  Intelligencer." 
The  majority,  however,  evaded  the  moral  issue;  that  Mrs. 
Tretherick  had  shaken  the  red  dust  of  Fiddletown  from 
her  dainty  slippers  was  enough  for  them  to  know.  They 
mourned  the  loss  of  the  fair  abductor  more  than  her 
offence.  They  promptly  rejected  Tretherick  as  an  injured 
husband  and  disconsolate  father,  and  even  went  so  far  as 
to  openly  cast  discredit  in  the  sincerity  of  his  grief.  They 
reserved  an  ironical  condolence  for  Colonel  Starbottle, 
overbearing  that  excellent  man  with  untimely  and  demon- 
strative sympathy  in  bar-rooms,  saloons,  and  other  localities 
not  generally  deemed  favourable  to  the  display  of  sentiment. 
"  She  was  alliz  a  skittish  thing,  Kernel,"  said  one  sympa- 
thiser with  a  fine  affectation  of  gloomy  concern  and  great 
readiness  of  illustration,  "  and  it's  kinder  nat'ril  thet  she'd 
get  away  some  day  and  stampede  that  theer  colt,  but  thet  she 
should  shake  you,  Kernel,  thet  she  should  just  shake  you — 
is  what  gits  me.  And  they  do  say  thet  you  jist  hung  around 
thet  hotel  all  night,  and  paytrolled  them  corriders  and  histed 
yourself  up  and  down  them  stairs,  and  meandered  in  and 
out  o'  thet  piazzy,  and  all  for  nothing ! "  It  was  another 
generous  and  tenderly  commiserating  spirit  that  poured 
additional  oil  and  wine  on  the  Colonel's  wounds.  "The 


76  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

boys  yer  let  on  thet  Mrs.  Tretherick  prevailed  on  ye  to 
pack  her  trunk  and  a  baby  over  from  the  house  to  the  stage 
offis,  and  that  the  chap  ez  did  go  off  with  her  thanked  you 
and  offered  you  two  short  bits,  and  sed  ez  how  he  liked  your 
looks  and  'ud  employ  you  agin — and  now  you  say  it  ain't 
so  ?  Well — I'll  tell  the  boys  it  ain't  so,  and  I'm  glad  I  met 
you,  for  stories  do  get  round." 

Happily  for  Mrs.  Tretherick's  reputation,  however,  the 
Chinaman  in  Tretherick's  employment,  who  was  the  only 
eyewitness  of  her  flight,  stated  that  she  was  unaccom- 
panied except  by  the  child.  He  further  deposed  that  obey- 
ing her  orders  he  had  stopped  the  Sacramento  coach  and 
secured  a  passage  for  herself  and  child  to  San  Francisco. 
It  was  true  that  Ah  Fe's  testimony  was  of  no  legal  value. 
But  nobody  doubted  it.  Even  those  who  were  sceptical  of 
the  Pagan's  ability  to  recognise  the  sacredness  of  the  truth 
admitted  his  passionless,  unprejudiced  unconcern.  But  it 
would  appear  from  an  hitherto  unrecorded  passage  of  this 
veracious  chronicle  that  herein  they  were  mistaken. 

It  was  about  six  months  after  the  disappearance  of  Mrs. 
Tretherick  that  Ah  Fe,  while  working  in  Tretherick's  lot, 
was  hailed  by  two  passing  Chinamen.  They  were  the 
ordinary  mining  coolies,  equipped  with  long  poles  and 
baskets  for  their  usual  pilgrimages.  An  animated  conver- 
sation at  once  ensued  between  Ah  Fe  and  his  brother 
Mongolians — a  conversation  characterised  by  that  usual 
shrill  volubility  and  apparent  animosity  which  was  at  once 
the  delight  and  scorn  of  the  intelligent  Caucasian  who  did 
not  understand  a  word  of  it.  Such,  at  least,  was  the  feeling 
with  which  Mr.  Tretherick  on  his  veranda,  and  Colonel  Star- 
bottle  who  was  passing,  regarded  their  heathenish  jargon. 
The  gallant  Colonel  simply  kicked  them  out  of  his  way ; 
the  irate  Tretherick  with  an  oath  threw  a  stone  at  the  group 
and  dispersed  them.  But  not  before  one  or  two  slips  of 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  77 

• 
yellow  rice  paper  marked  with  hieroglyphics  were  exchanged 

and  a  small  parcel  put  into  Ah  Fe's  hands.  When  Ah  Fe 
opened  this,  in  the  dim  solitude  of  his  kitchen,  he  found  a 
little  girl's  apron,  freshly  washed,  ironed,  and  folded.  On  the 
corner  of  the  hem  were  the  initials  "C.  T."  Ah  Fe  tucked 
it  away  in  a  corner  of  his  blouse,  and  proceeded  to  wash 
his  dishes  in  the  sink  with  a  smile  of  guileless  satisfaction. 

Two  days  after  this  Ah  Fe  confronted  his  master.  "  Me 
no  likee  Fiddletown.  Me  belly  sick.  Me  go  now."  Mr. 
Tretherick  violently  suggested  a  profane  locality.  Ah  Fe 
gazed  at  him  placidly  and  withdrew. 

Before  leaving  Fiddletown,  however,  he  accidentally  met 
Colonel  Starbottle  and  dropped  a  few  incoherent  phrases 
which  apparently  interested  that  gentleman.  When  he  con- 
cluded, the  Colonel  handed  him  a  letter  and  a  twenty-dollar 
gold  piece.  "If  you  bring  me  an  answer  I'll  double  that,  Sabe, 
John  ! "  Ah  Fe  nodded.  An  interview  equally  accidental, 
with  precisely  the  same  result,  took  place  between  Ah  Fe  and 
another  gentleman,  whom  I  suspect  to  have  been  the  youth- 
ful editor  of  the  "Avalanche."  Yet  I  regret  to  state  that  after 
proceeding  some  distance  on  his  journey,  Ah  Fe  calmly 
broke  the  seals  of  both  letters,  and  after  trying  to  read 
them  upside  down  and  sideways,  finally  divided  them  into 
accurate  squares,  and  in  this  condition  disposed  of  them  to 
a  brother  Celestial  whom  he  met  on  the  road  for  a  trifling 
gratuity.  The  agony  of  Colonel  Starbottle  on  finding  kis  wash- 
bill  made  out  on  the  unwritten  side  of  one  of  these  squares, 
and  delivered  to  him  with  his  weekly  clean  clothes,  and  the 
subsequent  discovery  that  the  remaining  portions  of  his 
letter  were  circulated  by  the  same  method  from  the  Chinese 
laundry  of  one  Fung  Ti  of  Fiddletown,  has  been  described 
to  me  as  peculiarly  affecting.  Yet  I  am  satisfied  that  a 
higher  nature,  rising  above  the  levity  induced  by  the  mere 
contemplation  of  the  insignificant  details  of  this  breach  of 


78  An  Episode  of  Fiddletoivn. 

0 

trust,  would  find  ample  retributive  justice  in  the  difficulties 
that  subsequently  attended  Ah  Fe's  pilgrimage. 

On  the  road  to  Sacramento  he  was  twice  playfully  thrown 
from  the  top  of  the  stage-coach  by  an  intelligent  but  deeply 
intoxicated  Caucasian,  whose  moral  nature  was  shocked  at 
riding  with  one  addicted  to  opium  smoking.  At  Hangtown 
he  was  beaten  by  a  passing  stranger,  purely  an  act  of 
Christian  supererogation.  At  Dutch  Flat  he  was  robbed 
by  well-known  hands  from  unknown  motives.  At  Sacra- 
mento he  was  arrested  on  suspicion  of  being  something  or 
other,  and  discharged  with  a  severe  reprimand — possibly  for 
not  being  it,  and  so  delaying  the  course  of  justice.  At  San 
Francisco  he  was  freely  stoned  by  children  of  the  public 
schools,  but  by  carefully  avoiding  these  monuments  of  en- 
lightened progress,  he  at  last  reached  in  comparative  safety 
the  Chinese  quarters,  where  his  abuse  was  confined  to  the 
police  and  limited  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  law. 

The  next  day  he  entered  the  wash-house  of  Chy  Fook  as 
an  assistant,  and  on  the  following  Friday  was  sent  with  a 
basket  of  clean  clothes  to  Chy  Fook's  several  clients. 

It  was  the  usual  foggy  afternoon  as  he  climbed  the  long 
wind-swept  hill  of  California  street,  one  of  those  bleak  gray 
intervals  that  made  the  summer  a  misnomer  to  any  but  the 
liveliest  San  Franciscan  fancy.  There  was  no  warmth  or 
colour  in  earth  or  sky ;  no  light  nor  shade  within  or  without, 
only  one  monotonous,  universal  neutral  tint  over  everything. 
There  was  a  fierce  unrest  in  the  wind-whipped  streets,  there 
was  a  dreary  vacant  quiet  in  the  gray  houses.  When  Ah 
Fe  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  the  Mission  ridge  was  already 
hidden,  and  the  chill  sea-breeze  made  him  shiver.  As  he 
put  down  his  basket  to  rest  himself,  it  is  possible  that  to  his 
defective  intelligence  and  heathen  experience  this  "  God's 
own  climate,"  as  it  was  called,  seemed  to  possess  but  scant 
tenderness,  softness,  or  mercy.  But  it  is  possible  that  Ah 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  79 

Fe  illogically  confounded  this  season  with  his  old  perse- 
cutors, the  school  children,  who,  being  released  from 
studious  confinement,  at  this  hour  were  generally  most 
aggressive.  So  he  hastened  on,  and,  turning  a  corner,  at 
last  stopped  before  a  small  house. 

It  was  the  usual  San  Franciscan  urban  cottage.  There 
was  the  little  strip  of  cold  green  shrubbery  before  it ;  the 
chilly  bare  veranda,  and  above  this  again  the  grim  balcony 
on  which  no  one  sat.  Ah  Fe  rang  the  bell;  a  servant 
appeared,  glanced  at  his  basket,  and  reluctantly  admitted 
him  as  if  he  were  some  necessary  domestic  animal.  Ah 
Fe  silently  mounted  the  stairs,  and,  entering  the  open  door 
of  the  front  chamber,  put  down  the  basket  and  stood  pas- 
sively on  the  threshold. 

A  woman  who  was  sitting  in  the  cold  gray  light  of  the 
window,  with  a  child  in  her  lap,  rose  listlessly  and  came 
toward  him.  Ah  Fe  instantly  recognised  Mrs.  Tretherick, 
but  not  a  muscle  of  his  immobile  face  changed,  nor  did 
his  slant  eyes  lighten  as  he  met  her  own  placidly.  She  evi- 
dently did  not  recognise  him  as  she  began  to  count  the 
clothes.  But  the  child,  curiously  examining  him,  suddenly 
uttered  a  short  glad  cry — 

"  Why,  it's  John !  Mamma,  it's  our  old  John  what  we 
had  in  Fiddletown." 

For  an  instant  Ah  Fe's  eyes  and  teeth  electrically 
lightened.  The  child  clapped  her  hands  and  caught  at 
his  blouse.  Then  he  said  shortly,  "  Me  John — Ah  Fe — 
allee  same.  Me  know  you.  How  do?" 

Mrs.  Tretherick  dropped  the  clothes  nervously  and  looked 
hard  at  Ah  Fe.  Wanting  the  quick-witted  instinct  of  affec- 
tion that  sharpened  Carry's  perception,  she  even  then  could 
not  distinguish  him  above  his  fellows.  With  a  recollection 
of  past  pain  and  an  obscure  suspicion  of  impending  danger, 
she  asked  him  when  he  had  left  Fiddletown. 


8o  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

"  Longee  time.  No  likee  Fiddletown,  no  likee  Tlevelick. 
Likee  San  Flisco.  Likee  washee.  Likee  Tally." 

Ah  Fe's  laconics  pleased  Mrs.  Tretherick.  She  did  not 
stop  to  consider  how  much  an  imperfect  knowledge  of 
English  added  to  his  curt  directness  and  sincerity.  But  she 
said,  "  Don't  tell  anybody  you  have  seen  me,"  and  took  out 
her  pocket-book. 

Ah  Fe,  without  looking  at  it,  saw  that  it  was  nearly 
empty.  Ah  Fe,  without  examining  the  apartment,  saw  that 
it  was  scantily  furnished*  Ah  Fe,  without  removing  his 
eyes  from  blank  vacancy,  saw  that  both  Mrs.  Tretherick 
and  Carry  were  poorly  dressed.  Yet  it  is  my  duty  to  state 
that  Ah  Fe's  long  fingers  closed  promptly  and  firmly  over 
the  half-dollar  which  Mrs.  Tretherick  extended  to  him. 

Then  he  began  to  fumble  in  his  blouse  with  a  series  of 
extraordinary  contortions.  After  a  few  moments  he  ex- 
tracted from  apparently  no  particular  place  a  child's  apron, 
which  he  laid  upon  the  basket  with  the  remark — 

"  One  piecee  washman  flagittee." 

Then  he  began  anew  his  fumblings  and  contortions.  At 
last  his  efforts  were  rewarded  by  his  producing,  apparently 
from  his  right  ear,  a  many- folded  piece  of  tissue  paper. 
Unwrapping  this  carefully,  he  at  last  disclosed  two  twenty- 
dollar  gold  pieces,  which  he  handed  to  Mrs.  Tretherick. 

"  You  leavee  money  top  side  of  blulow,  Fiddletown,  me 
findee  money.  Me  fetchee  money  to  you.  All  lightee." 

"  But  I  left  no  money  on  the  top  of  the  bureau,  John," 
said  Mrs.  Tretherick  earnestly.  "There  must  be  some 
mistake.  It  belongs  to  some  other  person.  Take  it  back, 
John." 

Ah  Fe's  brows  darkened.  He  drew  away  from  Mrs. 
Tretherick's  extended  hand  and  began  hastily  to  gather  up 
his  basket 

"Me  no  takee  back.     No,  no.     Bimeby  pleesman  he 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  81 

catchee  me !  He  say,  '  God  damn  thief — catchee  flowty 
dollar — come  to  jailee.'  Me  no  takee  back.  You  leavee 
money  top  side  blulow,  Fiddletown.  Me  fetchee  money 
you.  Me  no  takee  back." 

Mrs.  Tretherick  hesitated.  In  the  confusion  of  her  flight 
she  might  have  left  the  money  in  the  manner  he  had  said. 
In  any  event  she  had  no  right  to  jeopardise  this  honest 
Chinaman's  safety  by  refusing  it.  So  she  said,  "  Very  well, 
John,  I  will  keep  it.  But  you  must  come  again  and  see 
me" — here  Mrs.  T.  hesitated  with  a  new  and  sudden 
revelation  of  the  fact  that  any  man  could  wish  to  see  any 
other  than  herself, — "  and,  and — Carry  ! " 

Ah  Fe's  face  lightened.  He  even  uttered  a  short  ven- 
triloquistic  laugh  without  moving  his  mouth.  Then  shoul- 
dering his  basket  he  shut  the  door  carefully,  and  slid  quietly 
downstairs.  In  the  lower  hall  he,  however,  found  an  unex- 
pected difficulty  in  opening  the  front  door,  and  after  fum- 
bling vainly  at  the  lock  for  a  moment,  looked  around  for 
some  help  or  instruction.  But  the  Irish  handmaid  who 
had  let  him  in  was  contemptuously  oblivious  of  his  needs 
and  did  not  appear. 

There  occurred  a  mysterious  and  painful  incident  which 
I  shall  simply  record  without  attempting  to  explain.  On 
the  hall  table  a  scarf,  evidently  the  property  of  the  servant 
before  alluded  to,  was  lying.  As  Ah  Fe  tried  the  lock  with 
one  hand,  the  other  rested  lightly  on  the  table.  Suddenly, 
and  apparently  of  its  own  volition,  the  scarf  began  to  creep 
slowly  towards  Ah  Fe's  hand.  From  Ah  Fe's  hand  it  began 
to  creep  up  his  sleeve,  slowly  and  with  an  insinuating, 
snake-like  motion,  and  then  disappeared  somewhere  in  the 
recesses  of  his  blouse.  Without  betraying  the  least  interest 
or  concern  in  this  phenomenon,  Ah  Fe  still  repeated  his 
experiments  upon  the  lock.  A  moment  later  the  tablecloth 
of  red  damask,  moved  by  apparently  the  same  mysterious 

VOL.  III.  F 


82  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

impulse,  slowly  gathered  itself  under  Ah  Fe's  fingers,  and 
sinuously  disappeared  by  the  same  hidden  channel.  What 
further  mystery  might  have  followed  I  cannot  say,  for  at 
this  moment  Ah  Fe  discovered  the  secret  of  the  lock,  and 
was  enabled  to  open  the  door  coincident  with  the  sound 
of  footsteps  upon  the  kitchen  stairs.  Ah  Fe  did  not  hasten 
his  movements,  but  patiently  shouldering  his  basket,  closed 
the  door  carefully  behind  him  again,  and  stepped  forth 
into  the  thick  encompassing  fog  that  now  shrouded  earth 
and  sky. 

From  her  high  casement  window  Mrs.  Tretherick  watched 
Ah  Fe's  figure  until  it  disappeared  in  the  gray  cloud.  In 
her  present  loneliness  she  felt  a  keen  sense  of  gratitude 
towards  him,  and  may  have  ascribed  to  the  higher  emotions 
and  the  consciousness  of  a  good  deed  that  certain  expansive- 
ness  of  the  chest  and  swelling  of  the  bosom  that  was  really 
due  to  the  hidden  presence  of  the  scarf  and  tablecloth  under 
his  blouse ;  for  Mrs.  Tretherick  was  still  poetically  sensitive. 
As  the  gray  fog  deepened  into  night  she  drew  Carry  closer 
towards  her,  and  above  the  prattle  of  the  child  pursued  a 
vein  of  sentimental  and  egotistic  recollection  at  once  bitter 
and  dangerous.  The  sudden  apparition  of  Ah  Fe  linked 
her  again  with  her  past  life  at  Fiddletown.  Over  the  dreary 
interval  between  she  was  now  wandering — a  journey  so 
piteous,  wilful,  thorny,  and  useless,  that  it  was  no  wonder 
that  at  last  Carry  stopped  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her 
voluble  confidences  to  throw  her  small  arms  around  the 
woman's  neck  and  bid  her  not  to  cry. 

Heaven  forefend  that  I  should  use  a  pen  that  should  be 
ever  dedicated  to  an  exposition  of  unalterable  moral  principle 
to  transcribe  Mrs.  Tretherick's  own  theory  of  this  interval 
and  episode,  with  its  feeble  palliations,  its  illogical  deduc- 
tions, its  fond  excuses,  and  weak  apologies.  It  would  seem, 
however,  that  her  experience  had  been  hard.  Her  slender 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  83 

stock  of  money  was  soon  exhausted.  At  Sacramento  she 
found  that  the  composition  of  verse,  although  appealing  to 
the  highest  emotion  of  the  human  heart,  and  compelling 
the  editorial  breast  to  the  noblest  commendation  in  the 
editorial  pages,  was  singularly  inadequate  to  defray  the 
expenses  of  herself  and  Carry.  Then  she  tried  the  stage, 
but  failed  signally.  Possibly  her  conception  of  the  passions 
was  different  from  that  which  obtained  with  a  Sacramento 
audience,  but  it  was  certain  that  her  charming  presence,  so 
effective  at  short  range,  was  not  sufficiently  pronounced 
for  the  footlights.  She  had  admirers  enough  in  the  green- 
room, but  awakened  no  abiding  affection  among  the  audi- 
ence. In  this  strait  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  a  voice 
— a  contralto  of  no  very  great  compass  or  cultivation,  but 
singularly  sweet  and  touching,  and  she  finally  obtained 
position  in  a  church  choir.  She  held  it  for  three  months, 
greatly  to  her  pecuniary  advantage,  and,  it  is  said,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  the  gentlemen  in  the  back  pews  who 
faced  towards  her  during  the  singing  of  the  last  hymn. 

I  remember  her  quite  distinctly  at  this  time.  The  light 
that  slanted  through  the  oriel  of  St.  Dives'  choir  was  wont 
to  fall  tenderly  on  her  beautiful  head  with  its  stacked 
masses  of  deerskin-coloured  hair,  on  the  low  black  arches 
of  her  brows,  and  to  deepen  the  pretty  fringes  that  shaded 
her  eyes  of  Genoa  velvet  Very  pleasant  it  was  to  watch 
the  opening  and  shutting  of  that  small  straight  mouth,  with 
its  quick  revelation  of  little  white  teeth,  and  to  see  the 
foolish  blood  faintly  deepen  her  satin  cheek  as  you  watched ; 
for  Mrs.  Tretherick  was  very  sweetly  conscious  of  admira- 
tion, and,  like  most  pretty  women,  gathered  herself  under 
your  eye  like  a  racer  under  the  spur. 

And  then,  of  course,  there  came  trouble.  I  have  it  from 
the  soprano — a  little  lady  who  possessed  even  more  than 
the  usual  unprejudiced  judgment  of  her  sex — that  Mrs. 


84  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

Tretherick's  conduct  was  simply  shameful ;  that  her  conceit 
was  unbearable  ;  that  if  she  considered  the  rest  of  the  choir 
as  slaves,  she,  the  soprano,  would  like  to  know  it ;  that  her 
conduct  on  Easter  Sunday  with  the  basso  had  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  whole  congregation,  and  that  she  her- 
self had  noticed  Dr.  Cope  twice  look  up  during  the 
service ;  that  her,  the  soprano's,  friends  had  objected  to  her 
singing  in  the  choir  with  a  person  who  had  been  on  the 
stage,  but  she  had  waived  this.  Yet  she  had  it  from  the 
best  authority  that  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  run  away  from  her 
husband,  and  that  this  red-haired  child  who  sometimes 
came  in  the  choir  was  not  her  own.  The  tenor  confided 
to  me,  behind  the  organ,  that  Mrs.  Tretherick  had  a  way 
of  sustaining  a  note  at  the  end  of  a  line,  in  order  that  her 
voice  might  linger  longer  with  the  congregation — an  act 
that  could  be  attributed  only  to  a  defective  moral  nature ; 
that  as  a  man — he  was  a  very  popular  dry-goods  clerk  on 
week-days,  and  sang  a  good  deal  from  apparently  behind 
his  eyebrows  on  the  Sabbath — that  as  a  man,  sir,  he  would 
put  up  with  it  no  longer.  The  basso  alone — a  short  German 
with  a  heavy  voice,  for  which  he  seemed  reluctantly  respon- 
sible, and  rather  grieved  at  its  possession — stood  up  for  Mrs. 
Tretherick  and  averred  that  they  were  jealous  of  her  because 
she  was  "bretty."  The  climax  was  at  last  reached  in  an 
open  quarrel,  wherein  Mrs.  Tretherick  used  her  tongue 
with  such  precision  of  statement  and  epithet  that  the 
soprano  burst  into  hysterical  tears,  and  had  to  be  supported 
from  the  choir  by  her  husband  and  the  tenor.  This  act 
was  marked  intentionally  to  the  congregation  by  the  omis- 
sion of  the  usual  soprano  solo.  Mrs.  Tretherick  went  home 
flushed  with  triumph,  but  on  reaching  her  room  frantically 
told  Carry  that  they  were  beggars  henceforward ;  that  she 
- — her  mother — had  just  taken  the  very  bread  out  of  her 
darling's  mouth,  and  ended  by  bursting  into  a  flood  of 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  85 

penitent  tears.  They  did  not  come  so  quickly  as  in  her 
old  poetical  days,  but  when  they  came  they  stung  deeply. 
She  was  roused  by  a  formal  visit  from  a  vestryman — one 
of  the  Music  Committee.  Mrs.  Tretherick  dried  her  long 
lashes,  put  on  a  new  neck  ribbon,  and  went  down  to  the 
parlour.  She  stayed  there  two  hours ;  a  fact  that  might 
have  occasioned  some  remark  but  that  the  vestryman  was 
married  and  had  a  family  of  grown-up  daughters.  When 
Mrs.  Tretherick  returned  to  her  room,  she  sang  to  herself 
in  the  glass  and  scolded  Carry.  But  she  retained  her 
place  in  the  choir. 

It  was  not  long,  however.  In  due  course  of  time  her 
enemies  received  a  powerful  addition  to  their  forces  in  the 
committeeman's  wife.  That  lady  called  upon  several  of 
the  church  members  and  on  Dr.  Cope's  family.  The  result 
was  that  at  a  later  meeting  of  the  Music  Committee  Mrs. 
Tretherick's  voice  was  declared  inadequate  to  the  size  of 
the  building,  and  she  was  invited  to  resign.  She  did  so. 
She  had  been  out  of  a  situation  for  two  months,  and  her 
scant  means  were  almost  exhausted  when  Ah  Fe's  unex- 
pected treasure  was  tossed  into  her  lap. 

The  gray  fog  deepened  into  night,  and  the  street  lamps 
started  into  shivering  life,  as,  absorbed  in  these  unprofitable 
memories,  Mrs.  Tretherick  still  sat  drearily  at  her  window. 
Even  Carry  had  slipped  away  unnoticed,  and  her  abrupt 
entrance  with  the  damp  evening  paper  in  her  hand  roused 
Mrs.  Tretherick,  and  brought  her  back  to  an  active  realisa- 
tion of  the  present.  For  Mrs.  Tretherick  was  wont  to  scan 
the  advertisements,  in  the  faint  hope  of  finding  some  avenue 
of  employment — she  knew  not  what — open  to  her  needs, 
and  Carry  had  noted  this  habit. 

Mrs.  Tretherick  mechanically  closed  the  shutters,  lit  the 
lights,  and  opened  the  paper.  Her  eye  fell  instinctively  on 
the  following  paragraph  in  the  telegraphic  column  : — 


86  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

"  Fiddletown,  7th.  Mr.  James  Tretherick,  an  old  resident 
of  this  place,  died  last  night  of  delirium  tremens.  Mr. 
Tretherick  was  addicted  to  intemperate  habits,  said  to  have 
been  induced  by  domestic  trouble." 

Mrs.  Tretherick  did  not  start  She  quietly  turned  over 
another  page  of  the  paper  and  glanced  at  Carry.  The 
child  was  absorbed  in  a  book.  Mrs.  Tretherick  uttered 
no  word,  but  during  the  remainder  of  the  evening  was 
unusually  silent  and  cold.  When  Carry  was  undressed 
and  in  bed,  Mrs.  Tretherick  suddenly  dropped  on  her 
knees  beside  the  bed,  and  taking  Carry's  flaming  head 
between  her  hands,  said — 

"  Should  you  like  to  have  another  papa,  Carry,  darling?" 

"  No,"  said  Carry,  after  a  moment's  thought. 

"  But  a  papa  to  help  mamma  take  care  of  you — to  love 
you,  to  give  you  nice  clothes,  to  make  a  lady  of  you  when 
you  grow  up  ?  " 

Carry  turned  her  sleepy  eyes  toward  the  questioner. 
"  Should  you,  mamma  ?  " 

Mrs.  Tretherick  suddenly  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  "  Go  to  sleep,"  she  said  sharply,  and  turned  away. 

But  at  midnight  the  child  felt  two  white  arms  close 
tightly  around  her,  and  was  drawn  down  into  a  bosom  that 
heaved,  fluttered,  and  at  last  was  broken  up  by  sobs. 

"  Don't  ky,  mamma,"  whispered  Carry,  with  a  vague 
retrospect  of  their  recent  conversation.  "  Don't  ky.  I 
fink  I  should  like  a  new  papa  if  he  loved  you  very  much — 
very,  very  much  !  " 

A  month  afterwards,  to  everybody's  astonishment,  Mrs. 
Tretherick  was  married.  The  happy  bridegroom  was  one 
Colonel  Starbottle,  recently  elected  to  represent  Calaveras 
County  in  the  legislative  councils  of  the  State.  As  I  cannot 
record  the  event  in  finer  language  than  that  used  by  the 
correspondent  of  the  "  Sacramento  Globe,"  I  venture  to  quote 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  87 

some  of  his  graceful  periods.  "The  relentless  shafts  of 
the  sly  god  have  been  lately  busy  among  our  gallant 
Solons.  We  quote  'one  more  unfortunate.'  The  latest 
victim  is  the  Hon.  A.  Starbottle  of  Calaveras.  The  fair 
enchantress  in  the  case  is  a  beautiful  widow, — a  former 
votary  of  Thespis,  and  lately  a  fascinating  St.  Cecilia  of  one 
of  the  most  fashionable  churches  of  San  Francisco,  where 
she  commanded  a  high  salary." 

The  "Dutch  Flat  Intelligencer"  saw  fit,  however,  to 
comment  upon  the  fact  with  that  humorous  freedom  charac- 
teristic of  an  unfettered  press.  "  The  new  democratic  war- 
horse  from  Calaveras  has  lately  advented  in  the  Legisla^ 
ture  with  a  little  bill  to  change  the  name  of  Tretherick 
to  Starbottle.  They  call  it  a  marriage  certificate  down 
there.  Mr.  Tretherick  has  been  dead  just  one  month,  but 
we  presume  the  gallant  Colonel  is  not  afraid  of  ghosts." 
It  is  but  just  to  Mrs.  Tretherick  to  state  that  the  Colonel's 
victory  was  by  no  means  an  easy  one.  To  a  natural  degree 
of  coyness  on  the  part  of  the  lady  was  added  the  impedi- 
ment of  a  rival — a  prosperous  undertaker  from  Sacramento, 
who  had  first  seen  and  loved  Mrs.  Tretherick  at  the  theatre 
and  church ;  his  professional  habits  debarring  him  from 
ordinary  social  intercourse,  and  indeed  any  other  than  the 
most  formal  public  contact  with  the  sex.  As  this  gentleman 
had  made  a  snug  fortune  during  the  felicitous  prevalence 
of  a  severe  epidemic,  the  Colonel  regarded  him  as  a 
dangerous  rival.  Fortunately,  however,  the  undertaker  was 
called  in  professionally  to  lay  out  a  brother-senator  who 
had  unhappily  fallen  by  the  Colonel's  pistol  in  an  affair  of 
honour,  and  either  deterred  by  physical  consideration  from 
rivalry,  or  wisely  concluding  that  the  Colonel  was  profes- 
sionally valuable,  he  withdrew  from  the  field. 

The  honeymoon  was  brief,  and  brought  to  a  close  by  an 
untoward  incident  During  their  bridal  trip  Carry  had 
been  placedln  the  charge  of  Colonel  Starbottle's  sister.  On 


88  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

their  return  to  the  city,  immediately  on  reaching  their 
lodgings,  Mrs.  Starbottle  announced  her  intention  of  at 
once  proceeding  to  Mrs.  Culpepper's  to  bring  the  child 
home.  Colonel  Starbottle,  who  had  been  exhibiting  for 
some  time  a  certain  uneasiness  which  he  had  endeavoured 
to  overcome  by  repeated  stimulation,  finally  buttoned  his 
coat  tightly  across  his  breast,  and  after  walking  unsteadily 
once  or  twice  up  and  down  the  room,  suddenly  faced  his 
wife  with  his  most  imposing  manner. 

"  I  have  deferred,"  said  the  Colonel,  with  an  exaggera- 
tion of  port  that  increased  with  his  inward  fear,  and  a 
growing  thickness  of  speech,  "I  have  deferr — I  may  say 
poshponed  statement  o'  fack  thash  my  duty  ter  dishclose 
ter  ye.  I  did  no  wish  to  mar  su'shine  mushal  happ'ness — 
to  bligh'  bud  o'  promise,  to  darken  conjuglar  sky  by  unpleasht 
revelashun.  Musht  be  done — by  G — d,  m'm,  musht  do  it 
now.  The  chile  is  gone  ! " 

"Gone!"  echoed  Mrs.  Starbottle. 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  her  voice— in  the 
sudden  drawing  together  of  the  pupils  of  her  eyes,  that  for 
a  moment  nearly  sobered  the  Colonel  and  partly  collapsed 
his  chest. 

"  I'll  'splain  all  in  a  minit,"  he  said  with  a  deprecating 
wave  of  the  hand,  "  everything  shall  be  'splained.  The-the- 
the-melencholly  event  wish  preshipitate  our  happ'ness — the 
myster'us  prov'nice  wish  releash  you — releash  chile  !  huner- 
stan? — releash  chile.  The  mom't  Tretherick  die — all  claim 
you  have  in  chile  through  him — die  too.  Thash  law. 
.  Whose  chile  b'long  to?  Tretherick?  Tretherick  dead. 
Chile  can't  b'long  dead  man.  Damn  nonshense  b'long 
dead  man.  I'sh  your  chile?  no  !  who's  chile  then?  Chile 
b'long  to  'ts  mother.  Unnerstan'  ?  " 

"Where  is  she?"  said  Mrs.  Starbottle,  with  a  very  white 
face  and  a  very  low  voice. 

"I'll  'splain  all.      Chile  b'long  to  'ts  mother.      Thash 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  89 

law.  I'm  lawyer,  leshlator,  and  American  sis'n.  Ish  my 
duty  as  lawyer,  as  leshlator,  and  'merikan  sis'n  to  reshtore 
chile  to  sufFrin'  mother  at  any  coss — any  coss." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Starbottle  with  her  eyes 
still  fixed  on  the  Colonel's  face. 

"  Gone  to  'ts  m'o'r.  Gone  East  on  shteamer  yesserday. 
Waffed  by  fav'rin'  gales  to  suff'rin'  p'rent.  Thash  so !  " 

Mrs.  Starbottle  did  not  move.  The  Colonel  felt  his  chest 
slowly  collapsing,  but  steadied  himself  against  a  chair,  and 
endeavoured  to  beam  with  chivalrous  gallantry  not  unmixed 
with  magisterial  firmness  upon  her  as  she  sat. 

"  Your  feelin's,  m'm,  do  honour  to  yer  sex,  but  conshider 
situashun.  Conshider  m'or's  feelings — conshider  my  feel- 
in's."  The  Colonel  paused,  and  flourishing  a  white  hand- 
kerchief placed  it  negligently  in  his  breast,  and  then  smiled 
tenderly  above  it,  as  over  laces  and  ruffles,  on  the  woman 
before  him.  "  Why  should  dark  shedder  cass  bligh'  on  two 
sholes  with  single  beat  ?  Chile's  fine  chile,  good  chile,  but 
summonelse  chile !  chile's  gone,  Clar' ;  but  all  ishn't  gone, 
Clar'.  Conshider,  dearesht,  you  all's  have  me  ! " 

Mrs.  Starbottle  started  to  her  feet.  "  You ! "  she  cried, 
bringing  out  a  chest  note  that  made  the  chandeliers  ring. 
"You  that  I  married  to  give  my  darling  food  and  clothes. 
You  I  a  dog  that  I  whistled  to  my  side  to  keep  the  men  off 
me!  Your 

She  choked  up,  and  then  dashed  past  him  into  the  inner 
room  which  had  been  Carry's  ;  then  she  swept  by  him 
again  into  her  own  bedroom,  and  then  suddenly  reappeared 
before  him  erect,  menacing,  with  a  burning  fire  over  her 
cheek-bones,  a  quick  straightening  of  her  arched  brows  and 
mouth,  a  squaring  of  her  jaw  and  an  ophidian  flattening  of 
the  head. 

"  Listen  ! "  she  said,  in  a  hoarse,  half-grown  boy's  voice. 
'  Hear  me !  If  you  ever  expect  to  set  eyes  on  me  again 


90  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

you  must  find  the  child.  If  you  ever  expect  to  speak  to 
me  again — to  touch  me — you  must  bring  her  back.  For 
where  she  goes,  I  go — you  hear  me  ! — where  she  has  gone, 
look  for  me  ! " 

She  struck  out  past  him  again,  with  a  quick  feminine 
throwing  out  of  her  arms  from  the  elbows  down,  as  if  free- 
ing herself  from  some  imaginary  bonds,  and  dashing  into 
her  chamber  slammed  and  locked  the  door.  Colonel 
Starbottle,  although  no  coward,  stood  in  superstitious  fear 
of  an  angry  woman,  and  recoiling  as  she  swept  by,  lost  his 
unsteady  foothold  and  rolled  helplessly  on  the  sofa.  Here, 
after  one  or  two  unsuccessful  attempts  to  regain  his  foot- 
hold, he  remained,  uttering  from  time  to  time  profane  but 
not  entirely  coherent  or  intelligible  protests,  until  at  last  he 
succumbed  to  the  exhausting  quality  of  his  emotions,  and 
the  narcotic  quantity  of  his  potations. 

Meantime,  within,  Mrs.  Starbottle  was  excitedly  gathering 
her  valuables  and  packing  her  trunk,  even  as  she  had  done 
once  before  in  the  course  of  this  remarkable  history.  Per- 
haps some  recollection  of  this  was  in  her  mind,  for  she 
stopped  to  lean  her  burning  cheeks  upon  her  hand,  as  if 
she  saw  again  the  figure  of  the  child  standing  in  the  door- 
way, and  heard  once  more  a  childish  voice  asking,  "  Is  it 
mamma?"  But  the  epithet  now  stung  her  to  the  quick, 
and  with  a  quick,  passionate  gesture,  she  dashed  it  away 
with  a  tear  that  had  gathered  in  her  eye.  And  then  it 
chanced  that  in  turning  over  some  clothes  she  came  upon 
the  child's  slipper  with  a  broken  sandal-string.  She  uttered 
a  great  cry  here — the  first  she  had  uttered — and  caught  it 
to  her  breast,  kissing  it  passionately  again  and  again,  and 
rocking  from  side  to  side  with  a  motion  peculiar  to  her  sex. 
And  then  she  took  it  to  the  window,  the  better  to  see  it 
through  her  now  streaming  eyes.  Here  she  was  taken  with 
a  sudden  fit  of  coughing  that  she  could  not  stifle  with  the 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  91 

handkerchief  she  put  to  her  feverish  lips.  And  then  she 
suddenly  grew  very  faint,  the  window  seemed  to  recede 
before  her,  the  floor  to  sink  beneath  her  feet,  and  staggering 
to  the  bed,  she  fell  prone  upon  it  with  the  sandal  and  hand- 
kerchief pressed  to  her  breast.  Her  face  was  quite  pale, 
the  orbit  of  her  eyes  dark,  and  there  was  a  spot  upon  her 
lip,  another  on  her  handkerchief,  and  still  another  on  the 
white  counterpane  of  the  bed. 

The  wind  had  risen,  rattling  the  window  sashes  and 
swaying  the  white  curtains  in  a  ghostly  way.  Later,  a  gray 
fog  stole  softly  over  the  roofs,  soothing  the  wind-roughened 
surfaces,  and  enwrapping  all  things  in  an  uncertain  light 
and  a  measureless  peace.  She  lay  there  very  quiet — for 
all  her  troubles,  still  a  very  pretty  bride.  And  on  the  other 
side  of  the  bolted  door  the  gallant  bridegroom,  from  his 
temporary  couch,  snored  peacefully. 

A  week  before  Christmas  Day,  1870,  the  little  town  of 
Genoa,  in  the  State  of  New  York,  exhibited,  perhaps  more 
strongly  than  at  any  other  time,  the  bitter  irony  of  its  foun- 
ders and  sponsors.  A  driving  snowstorm  that  had  whitened 
every  windward  hedge,  bush,  wall,  and  telegraph  pole, 
played  around  this  soft  Italian  capital,  whirled  in  and  out 
of  the  great,  staring,  wooden  Doric  columns  of  its  post-office 
and  hotel,  beat  upon  the  cold  green  shutters  of  its  best 
houses,  and  powdered  the  angular,  stiff,  dark  figures  in  its 
streets.  From  the  level  of  the  street  the  four  principal 
churches  of  the  town  stood  out  starkly,  even  while  their 
misshapen  spires  were  kindly  hidden  in  the  low  driving 
storm.  Near  the  railroad  station  the  new  Methodist  chapel, 
whose  resemblance  to  an  enormous  locomotive  was  further 
heightened  by  the  addition  of  a  pyramidal  row  of  front 
steps,  like  a  cow-catcher,  stood  as  if  waiting  for  a  few  more 
houses  to  be  hitched  on  to  proceed  to  a  pleasanter  location. 
But  the  pride  of  Genoa — the  great  Crammer  Institute  for 


92  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

Young  Ladies — stretched  its  bare  brick  length  and  reared 
its  cupola  plainly  from  the  bleak  Parnassian  hill  above  the 
principal  avenue.  There  was  no  evasion  in  the  Crammer 
Institute  of  the  fact  that  it  was  a  public  institution.  A 
visitor  upon  its  doorstep,  a  pretty  face  at  its  window,  were 
clearly  visible  all  over  the  township. 

The  shriek  of  the  engine  of  the  4  o'clock  Northern  express 
brought  but  few  of  the  usual  loungers  to  the  depot.  Only 
a  single  passenger  alighted  and  was  driven  away  in  the 
solitary  waiting  sleigh  towards  the  Genoa  Hotel.  And  then 
the  train  sped  away  again — with  that  passionate  indifference 
to  human  sympathies  or  curiosity  peculiar  to  express  trains — 
the  one  baggage  truck  was  wheeled  into  the  station  again,  the 
station  door  was  locked,  and  the  station-master  went  home. 

The  locomotive  whistle,  however,  awakened  the  guilty 
consciousness  of  three  young  ladies  of  the  Crammer  Institute 
who  were  even  then  surreptitiously  regaling  themselves  in 
the  bake-shop  and  confectionery  saloon  of  Mrs,  Phillips  in  a 
by-lane.  For  even  the  admirable  regulations  of  the  Institute 
failed  to  entirely  develop  the  physical  and  moral  natures  of 
its  pupils ;  they  conformed  to  the  excellent  dietary  rules  in 
public,  and  in  private  drew  upon  the  luxurious  rations  of 
their  village  caterer  ;  they  attended  church  with  exemplary 
formality,  and  flirted  informally  during  service  with  the  village 
beaux ;  they  received  the  best  and  most  judicious  instruction 
during  school  hours,  and  devoured  the  trashiest  novels 
during  recess.  The  result  of  which  was  an  aggregation 
of  quite  healthy,  quite  human,  and  very  charming  young 
creatures,  that  reflected  infinite  credit  on  the  Institute. 
Even  Mrs.  Phillips,  to  whom  they  owed  vast  sums,  exhila- 
rated by  the  exuberant  spirits  and  youthful  freshness  of 
her  guests,  declared  that  the  sight  of  "  them  young  things  " 
did  her  good,  and  had  even  been  known  to  shield  them  by 
shameless  equivocation. 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletoivn.  93 

"  Four  o'clock,  girls  !  and  if  we're  not  back  to  prayers  by 
five  we'll  be  missed,"  said  the  tallest  of  these  foolish  virgins 
with  an  aquiline  nose  and  certain  quiet  Man  that  bespoke 
the  leader,  as  she  rose  from  her  seat.  "  Have  you  got  the 
books,  Addy?"  Addy  displayed  three  dissipated-looking 
novels  under  her  waterproof.  "And  the  provisions,  Carry?" 
Carry  showed  a  suspicious  parcel  filling  the  pocket  of  her 
sack.  "  All  right,  then.  Come,  girls,  trudge.  Charge  it," 
she  added,  nodding  to  her  host,  as  they  passed  towards  the 
door.  "  I'll  pay  you  when  my  quarter's  allowance  comes." 

"No,  Kate,"  interposed  Carry,  producing  her  purse; 
"let  me  pay — it's  my  turn." 

"  Never  !  "  said  Kate,  arching  her  black  brows  loftily — 
"  even  if  you  do  have  rich  relatives  and  regular  remittances 
from  California.  Never.  Come,  girls — forward,  march  !  " 

As  they  opened  the  door  a  gust  of  wind  nearly  took  them 
off  their  feet  Kindhearted  Mrs.  Phillips  was  alarmed. 
"  Sakes  alive !  gals,  ye  mussn't  go  out  in  sich  weather ; 
better  let  me  send  word  to  the  Institoot  and  make  ye  up  a 
nice  bed  to-night  in  my  parlour."  But  the  last  sentence  was 
lost  in  a  chorus  of  half-suppressed  shrieks  as  the  girls,  hand 
in  hand,  ran  down  the  steps  into  the  storm  and  were  at  once 
whirled  away. 

The  short  December  day,  unlit  by  any  sunset  glow,  was 
failing  fast.  It  was  quite  dark  already,  and  the  air  was 
thick  with  driving  snow.  For  some  distance  their  high 
spirits,  youth,  and  even  inexperience,  kept  them  bravely  up, 
but  in  ambitiously  attempting  a  short  cut  from  the  high 
road  across  an  open  field  their  strength  gave  out,  the  laugh 
grew  less  frequent,  and  tears  began  to  stand  in  Carry's 
brown  eyes.  When  they  reached  the  road  again  they  were 
utterly  exhausted.  "  Let  us  go  back,"  said  Carry. 

"  We'd  never  get  across  that  field  again,"  said  Addy. 

"Let's  stop  at  the  first  house,  then,"  said  Carry. 


94  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown, 

"The  first  house,"  said  Addy,  peering  through  the 
gathering  darkness,  "is  Squire  Robinson's."  She  darted  a 
mischievous  glance  at  Carry  that  even  in  her  discomfort 
and  fear  brought  the  quick  blood  to  her  cheek. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Kate  with  gloomy  irony,  "  certainly,  stop 
at  the  Squire's,  by  all  means,  and  be  invited  to  tea,  and  be 
driven  home  after  tea  by  your  dear  friend  Mr.  Harry,  with 
a  formal  apology  from  Mrs.  Robinson,  and  hopes  that  the 
young  ladies  may  be  excused  this  time.  No,"  continued 
Kate  with  sudden  energy,  "  that  may  suit  you — but  I'm 
going  back  as  I  came — by  the  window — or  not  at  all." 
Then  she  pounced  suddenly,  like  a  hawk,  on  Carry,  who 
was  betraying  a  tendency  to  sit  down  on  a  snowbank  and 
whimper,  and  shook  her  briskly.  "  You'll  be  going  to  sleep 
next.  Stay — hold  your  tongues,  all  of  you — what's  that  ?  " 

It  was  the  sound  of  sleigh-bells.  Coming  down  toward 
them  out  of  the  darkness  was  a  sleigh  with  a  single 
occupant.  "  Hold  down  your  heads,  girls,  if  it's  anybody 
that  knows  us — we're  lost."  But  it  was  not,  for  a  voice 
strange  to  their  ears,  but  withal  very  kindly  and  pleasant, 
asked  if  its  owner  could  be  of  any  help  to  them.  As  they 
turned  toward  him  they  saw  it  was  a  man  wrapped  in  a 
handsome  sealskin  cloak,  wearing  a  sealskin  cap — his  face, 
half  concealed  by  a  muffler  of  the  same  material,  disclosing 
only  a  pair  of  long  moustaches  and  two  keen  dark  eyes. 
"  It's  a  son  of  old  Santa  Claus,"  whispered  Addy.  The 
girls  tittered  audibly  as  they  tumbled  into  the  sleigh — they 
had  regained  their  former  spirits.  "Where  shall  I  take 
you  ? "  said  the  stranger  quietly.  There  was  a  hurried 
whispering,  and  then  Kate  said  boldly,  "To  the  Institute." 
They  drove  silently  up  the  hill  until  the  long  ascetic  build- 
ing loomed  up  before  them.  The  stranger  reined  up 
suddenly.  "  You  know  the  way  better  than  I,"  he  said ; 
"  where  do  you  go  in  ? "  "  Through  the  back  window," 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  95 

said  Kate  with  sudden  and  appalling  frankness.  "  I  see  !  " 
responded  their  strange  driver  quietly,  and  alighting  quickly, 
removed  the  bells  from  the  horses.  "We  can  drive  as 
near  as  you  please  now,"  he  added  by  way  of  explanation. 
"  He  certainly  is  a  son  of  Santa  Claus,"  whispered  Addy ; 
"hadn't  we  better  ask  after  his  father?"  "Hush,"  said 
Kate  decidedly.  "  He  is  an  angel,  I  daresay."  She  added 
with  a  delicious  irrelevance,  which  was,  however,  perfectly 
understood  by  her  feminine  auditors,  "We  are  looking 
like  three  frights." 

Cautiously  skirting  the  fences,  they  at  last  pulled  up  a 
few  feet  from  a  dark  wall.  The  stranger  proceeded  to 
assist  them  to  alight.  There  was  still  some  light  from  the 
reflected  snow,  and  as  he  handed  his  fair  companions  to  the 
ground  each  was  conscious  of  undergoing  an  intense  though 
respectful  scrutiny.  He  assisted  them  gravely  to  open  the 
window,  and  then  discreetly  retired  to  the  sleigh  until  the 
difficult  and  somewhat  discomposing  ingress  was  made. 
He  then  walked  to  the  window.  "  Thank  you  and  good 
night,  "  whispered  three  voices.  A  single  figure  still  lingered. 
The  stranger  leaned  over  the  window-sill.  "  Will  you  per- 
mit me  to  light  my  cigar  here  ?  it  might  attract  attention  if 
I  struck  a  match  outside."  By  the  upspringing  light  he 
saw  the  figure  of  Kate  very  charmingly  framed  in  by  the 
window.  The  match  burned  slowly  out  in  his  fingers.  Kate 
smiled  mischievously.  The  astute  young  woman  had 
detected  the  pitiable  subterfuge.  For  what  else  did  she 
stand  at  the  head  of  her  class,  and  had  doting  parents  paid 
three  years'  tuition? 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  the  sun  was  shining  quite 
cheerily  in  the  eastern  recitation-room  the  next  morning, 
when  Miss  Kate,  whose  seat  was  nearest  the  window, 
placing  her  hand  pathetically  upon  her  heart,  affected  to 
fall  in  bashful  and  extreme  agitation  upon  the  shoulder  of 


g6  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

Carry,  her  neighbour.  "  He  has  come  ! "  she  gasped  in  a 
thrilling  whisper.  "  Who  ?  "  asked  Carry  sympathetically, 
who  never  clearly  understood  when  Kate  was  in  earnest 
"  Who  ? — why,  the  man  who  rescued  us  last  night !  I  saw 
him  drive  to  the  door  this  moment.  Don't  speak — I  shall 
be  better  in  a  moment ;  there  ! "  she  said,  and  the  shame- 
less hypocrite  passed  her  hand  pathetically  across  her  fore- 
head with  a  tragic  air. 

"What  can  he  want?"  asked  Carry,  whose  curiosity 
was  excited. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Kate,  suddenly  relapsing  into 
gloomy  cynicism.  "  Possibly  to  put  his  five  daughters  to 
school.  Perhaps  to  finish  his  young  wife  and  warn  her 
against  us." 

"  He  didn't  look  old,  and  he  didn't  seem  like  a  married 
man,"  rejoined  Addy  thoughtfully. 

"That  was  his  art,  you  poor  creature  !"  returned  Kate 
scornfully;  "you  can  never  tell  anything  of  these  men — 
they  are  so  deceitful.  Besides,  it's  just  my  fate  !" 

"  \Vhy,  Kate" began  Carry,  in  serious  concern. 

"  Hush,  Miss  Walker  is  saying  something,"  said  Kate, 
laughing. 

"  The  young  ladies  will  please  give  attention,"  said  a  slow 
perfunctory  voice.  "Miss  Carry  Tretherick  is  wanted  in 
the  parlour." 

Meantime  Mr.  Jack  Prince,  the  name  given  on  the  card 
and  various  letters  and  credentials  submitted  to  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Crammer,  paced  the  somewhat  severe  apartment  known 
publicly  as  the  "  Reception  Parlour,"  and  privately  to  the 
pupils  as  "Purgatory."  His  keen  eyes  had  taken  in  the 
various  rigid  details,  from  the  flat  steam  "  Radiator "  like 
an  enormous  japanned  soda-cracker,  that  heated  one  end  of 
the  room,  to  the  monumental  bust  of  Dr.  Crammer  that 
hopelessly  chilled  the  other;  from  the  Lord's  Prayer, 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  97 

executed  by  a  former  writing-master  in  such  gratuitous 
variety  of  elegant .  caligraphic  trifling  as  to  considerably 
abate  the  serious  value  of  the  composition,  to  three  views 
of  Genoa  from  the  Institute,  which  nobody  ever  recognised, 
taken  on  the  spot  by  the  drawing  teacher ;  from  two  illu- 
minated texts  of  Scripture  in  an  English  letter,  so  gratui- 
tously and  hideously  remote  as  to  chill  all  human  interest, 
to  a  large  photograph  of  the  senior  class,  in  which  the 
prettiest  girls  were  Ethiopian  in  complexion,  and  sat 
(apparently)  on  each  other's  heads  and  shoulders; — his 
fingers  had  turned  listlessly  the  leaves  of  school  catalogues, 
the  Sermons  of  Dr.  Crammer,  the  Poems  of  Henry  Kirke 
White,  the  "  Lays  of  the  Sanctuary,"  and  "  Lives  of  Cele- 
brated Women  ;  "—his  fancy,  and  it  was  a  nervously  active 
one,  had  gone  over  the  partings  and  greetings  that  must 
have  taken  place  here,  and  wondered  why  the  apartment 
had  yet  caught  so  little  of  the  flavour  of  humanity ; — 
indeed,  I  am  afraid  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  object  of 
his  visit  when  the  door  opened  and  Carry  Tretherick  stood 
before  him. 

It  was  one  of  those  faces  he  had  seen  the  night  before — 
prettier  even  than  it  had  seemed  then — and  yet  I  think  he 
was  conscious  of  some  disappointment,  without  knowing 
exactly  why.  Her  abundant  waving  hair  was  of  a  guinea- 
golden  tint,  her  complexion  of  a  peculiar  flower-like  delicacy, 
her  brown  eyes  of  the  colour  of  seaweed  in  deep  water. 
It  certainly  was  not  her  beauty  that  disappointed  him. 

Without  possessing  his  sensitiveness  to  impression,  Carry 
was,  on  her  part,  quite  as  vaguely  ill  at  ease.  She  saw 
before  her  one  of  those  men  whom  the  sex  would  vaguely 
generalise  as  "  nice  " — that  is  to  say,  correct  in  all  the  super- 
ficial appointments  of  style,  dress,  manners,  and  feature. 
Yet  there  was  a  decidedly  unconventional  quality  about  him 
—he  was  totally  unlike  anything  or  anybody  that  she  could 

VOL.  III.  G 


98  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

remember,  and,  as  the  attributes  of  originality  are  often  as 
apt  to  alarm  as  to  attract  people,  she  was  not  entirely  pre- 
possessed in  his  favour. 

"I  can  hardly  hope,"  he  began  pleasantly,  "that  you 
remember  me.  It  is  eleven  years  ago,  and  you  were  a  very 
little  girl.  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  even  claim  to  have  enjoyed 
that  familiarity  that  might  exist  between  a  child  of  six  and 
a  young  man  of  twenty-one.  I  don't  think  I  was  fond  of 
children.  But  I  knew  your  mother  very  well.  I  was  editor 
of  the  'Avalanche'  in  Fiddletown  when  she  took  you  to 
San  Francisco." 

"  You  mean  my  stepmother — she  wasn't  my  mother,  you 
know,"  interposed  Carry  hastily. 

Mr.  Prince  looked  at  her  curiously.  "  I  mean  your  step- 
mother," he  said  gravely.  "I  never  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  your  mother." 

"  No,  mother  hasn't  been  in  California  these  twelve  years.' 

There  was  an  intentional  emphasising  of  the  title  and  of 
its  distinction,  that  began  to  coldly  interest  Prince  after  his 
first  astonishment  was  past. 

"As  I  come  from  your  stepmother  now,"  he  went  on, 
with  a  slight  laugh,  "  I  must  ask  you  to  go  back  for  a  few 
moments  to  that  point.  After  your  father's  death,  your 
mother — I  mean  your  stepmother — recognised  the  fact  that 
your  mother,  the  first  Mrs.  Tretherick,  was  legally  and 
morally  your  guardian,  and  although  much  against  her 
inclination  and  affections,  placed  you  again  in  her  charge." 

"  My  stepmother  married  again  within  a  month  after 
father  died,  and  sent  me  home,"  said  Carry  with  great 
directness,  and  the  faintest  toss  of  her  head. 

Mr.  Prince  smiled  so  sweetly,  and  apparently  so  sym- 
pathetically, that  Carry  began  to  like  him.  With  no  other 
notice  of  the  interruption  he  went  on :  "  After  your  step- 
mother had  performed  this  act  of  simple  justice,  she  entered 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  99 

into  an  agreement  with  your  mother  to  defray  the  expenses 
of  your  education  until  your  eighteenth  year,  when  you  were 
to  elect  and  choose  which  of  the  two  should  thereafter  be 
your  guardian,  and  with  whom  you  would  make  your  home. 
This  agreement,  I  think,  you  are  already  aware  of,  and  I 
believe  knew  at  the  time." 

"  I  was  a  mere  child,  then,"  said  Carry. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Prince  with  the  same  smile ;  "  still 
the  conditions,  I  think,  have  never  been  oppressive  to  you 
nor  your  mother,  and  the  only  time  they  are  likely  to  give 
you  the  least  uneasiness  will  be  when  you  come  to  make  up 
your  mind  in  the  choice  of  your  guardian.  That  will  be  on 
your  eighteenth  birthday — the  2oth,  I  think,  of  the  present 
month." 

Carry  was  silent. 

"Pray  do  not  think  that  I  am  here  to  receive  your 
decision,  even  if  it  be  already  made.  I  only  came  to 
inform  you  that  your  stepmother,  Mrs.  Starbottle,  will  be  in 
town  to-morrow,  and  will  pass  a  few  days  at  the  hotel.  If  it 
is  your  wish  to  see  her  before  you  make  up  your  mind,  she 
will  be  glad  to  meet  you.  She  does  not,  however,  wish  to 
do  anything  to  influence  your  judgment." 

"  Does  mother  know  she  is  coming  ?  "  said  Carry  hastily. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Prince  gravely ;  "  I  only  know 
that  if  you  conclude  to  see  Mrs.  Starbottle,  it  will  be  with 
your  mother's  permission.  Mrs.  Starbottle  will  keep  sacredly 
this  part  of  the  agreement,  made  ten  years  ago.  But  her 
health  is  very  poor,  and  the  change  and  country  quiet  of 
a  few  days  may  benefit  her."  Mr.  Prince  bent  his  keen, 
bright  eyes  upon  the  young  girl,  and  almost  held  his  breath 
until  she  spoke  again. 

"Mother's  coming  up  to-day  or  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
looking  up. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Prince  with  a  sweet  and  languid  smile. 


loo  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

"  Is  Colonel  Starbottle  here  too  ? "  asked  Carry  after  a 
pause. 

"  Colonel  Starbottle  is  dead  ;  your  stepmother  is  again  a 
widow." 

"  Dead  ! "  repeated  Carry. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mr.  Prince,  "your  stepmother  has  been 
singularly  unfortunate  in  surviving  her  affections." 

Carry  did  not  know  what  he  meant,  and  looked  so.  Mr. 
Prince  smiled  reassuringly. 

Presently  Carry  began  to  whimper. 

Mr.  Prince  softly  stepped  beside  her  chair. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  with  a  very  peculiar  light  in  his 
eye,  and  a  singular  dropping  of  the  corners  of  his  moustache, 
"  I  am  afraid  you  are  taking  this  too  deeply.  It  will  be 
some  days  before  you  are  called  upon  to  make  a  decision. 
Let  us  talk  of  something  else.  I  hope  you  caught  no  cold 
last  evening." 

Carry's  face  shone  out  again  in  dimples. 

"  You  must  have  thought  us  so  queer  !  It  was  too  bad 
to  give  you  so  much  trouble." 

"  None  whatever,  I  assure  you.  My  sense  of  propriety," 
he  added  demurely,  "  which  might  have  been  outraged  had 
I  been  called  upon  to  help  three  young  ladies  out  of  a 
schoolroom  window  at  night,  was  deeply  gratified  at  being 
able  to  assist  them  in  again."  The  door-bell  rang  loudly, 
and  Mr.  Prince  rose.  "  Take  your  own  time,  and  think 
well  before  you  make  your  decision."  But  Carry's  ear  and 
attention  were  given  to  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall.  At 
the  same  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open  and  a  servant 
announced,  "  Mrs.  Tretherick  and  Mr.  Robinson." 

The  afternoon  train  had  just  shrieked  out  its  usual 
indignant  protest  at  stopping  at  Genoa  at  all,  as  Mr.  Jack 
Prince  entered  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and  drove  towards 
his  hotel.  He  was  wearied  and  cynical ;  a  drive  of  a  dozen 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  101 

miles  through  unpicturesque  outlying  villages,  past  small 
economic  farmhouses  and  hideous  villas  that  violated  his 
fastidious  taste,  had,  I  fear,  left  that  gentleman  in  a  captious 
state  of  mind.  He  would  have  even  avoided  his  taciturn 
landlord  as  he  drove  up  to  the  door,  but  that  functionary 
waylaid  him  on  the  steps.  "  There's  a  lady  in  the  sittin'- 
room  waitin'  for  ye."  Mr.  Prince  hurried  upstairs  and 
entered  the  room  as  Mrs.  Starbottle  flew  towards  him. 

She  had  changed  sadly  in  the  last  ten  years.  Her  figure 
was  wasted  to  half  its  size ;  the  beautiful  curves  of  her  bust 
and  shoulders  were  broken  or  inverted;  the  once  full, 
rounded  arm  was  shrunken  in  its  sleeve,  and  the  golden 
hoops  that  encircled  her  wan  wrists  almost  slipped  from  her 
hands  as  her  long,  scant  fingers  closed  convulsively  around 
Jack's.  Her  cheek-bones  were  painted  that  afternoon  with 
the  hectic  of  fever;  somewhere  in  the  hollows  of  those 
cheeks  were  buried  the  dimples  of  long  ago,  but  their 
graves  were  forgotten ;  her  lustrous  eyes  were  still  beautiful, 
though  the  orbits  were  deeper  than  before  ;  her  mouth  was 
still  sweet,  although  the  lips  parted  more  easily  over  the 
little  teeth,  and  even  in  breathing — and  showed  more  of 
them  than  she  was  wont  to  do  before.  The  glory  of  her 
blonde  hair  was  still  left ;  it  was  finer,  more  silken  and 
ethereal,  yet  it  failed  even  in  its  plenitude  to  cover  the 
hollows  of  the  blue-veined  temples. 

"  Clara,"  said  Jack  reproachfully. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,  Jack,"  she  said,  falling  into  a  chair 
but  still  clinging  to  his  hand,  "  forgive  me,  dear,  but  I  could 
not  wait  longer.  I  should  have  died,  Jack,  died  before 
another  night.  Bear  with  me  a  little  longer — it  will  not  be 
long — but  let  me  stay.  I  may  not  see  her,  I  know — I 
shall  not  speak  to  her — but  it's  so  sweet  to  feel  that  I  am 
at  last  near  her — that  1  breathe  the  same  air  with  my 
darling — I  am  better  already,  Jack,  I  am  indeed.  And 


IO2  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

you  have  seen  her  to-day  ?  How  did  she  look  ?  what  did 
she  say  ? — tell  me  all — everything,  Jack.  Was  she  beautiful  ? 
— they  say  she  is !  Has  she  grown  ?  Would  you  have 
known  her  again  ?  Will  she  come,  Jack  ?  Perhaps  she 
has  been  here  already — perhaps" — she  had  risen  with 
tremulous  excitement,  and  was  glancing  at  the  door,  "per- 
haps she  is  here  now.  Why  don't  you  speak,  Jack  ? — tell 
me  all." 

The  keen  eyes  that  looked  down  into  hers  were  glistening 
with  an  infinite  tenderness  that  none  perhaps  but  she  would 
have  deemed  them  capable  of.  "Clara,"  he  said  gently 
and  cheerily,  "  try  and  compose  yourself.  You  are  trem- 
bling now  with  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  your  journey. 
I  have  seen  Carry — she  is  well  and  beautiful  !  Let  that 
suffice  you  now." 

His  gentle  firmness  composed  and  calmed  her  now  as  it 
had  often  done  before.  Stroking  her  thin  hand,  he  said 
after  a  pause,  "  Did  Carry  ever  write  to  you  ?  " 

"  Twice — thanking  me  for  some  presents ;  they  were 
only  schoolgirl  letters,"  she  added,  nervously  answering 
the  interrogation  of  his  eyes. 

"  Did  she  ever  know  of  your  own  troubles  ?  of  your 
poverty  ?  of  the  sacrifices  you  made  to  pay  her  bills  ?  of 
your  pawning  your  clothes  and  jewels  ?  of  your  " 

"No  no,"  interrupted  the  woman  quickly,  "no  !  How 
could  she  ?  I  have  no  enemy  cruel  enough  to  tell  her 
that" 

"  But  if  she — or  if  Mrs.  Tretherick — had  heard  of  it  ? 
If  Carry  thought  you  were  poor  and  unable  to  support  her 
properly,  it  might  influence  her  decision.  Young  girls  are 
fond  of  the  position  that  wealth  can  give.  She  may  have 
rich  friends — maybe  a  lover." 

Mrs.  Starbottle  winced  at  the  last  sentence.  "  But,"  she 
said  eagerly,  grasping  Jack's  hand,  "  when  you  found  me 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  103 

sick  and  helpless  at  Sacramento — when  you — God  bless  you 
for  it,  Jack  ! — offered  to  help  me  to  the  East,  you  said  you 
knew  of  something — you  had  some  plan — that  woul  dmake 
me  and  Carry  independent." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jack  hastily,  "  but  I  want  you  to  get  strong 
and  well  first.  And  now  that  you  are  calmer,  you  shall 
listen  to  my  visit  to  the  school." 

It  was  .then  that  Mr.  Jack  Prince  proceeded  to  describe 
the  interview  already  recorded  with  a  singular  felicity  and 
discretion  that  shames  my  own  account  of  that  proceeding. 
Without  suppressing  a  single  fact,  without  omitting  a  word 
or  detail,  he  yet  managed  to  throw  a  poetic  veil  over  that 
prosaic  episode — to  invest  the  heroine  with  a  romantic 
roseate  atmosphere,  which,  though  not  perhaps  entirely 
imaginary,  still  I  fear  exhibited  that  genius  which  ten  years 
ago  had  made  the  columns  of  the  "  Fiddletown  Avalanche  " 
at  once  fascinating  and  instructive.  It  was  not  until  he  saw 
the  heightening  colour,  and  heard  the  quick  breathing  of  his 
eager  listener,  that  he  felt  a  pang  of  self-reproach.  "  God 
help  her  and  forgive  me,"  he  muttered  between  his  clenched 
teeth,  "  but  how  can  I  tell  her  all  now  ! " 

That  night  when  Mrs.  Starbottle  laid  her  weary  head 
upon  her  pillow  she  tried  to  picture  to  herself  Carry  at  the 
same  moment  sleeping  peacefully  in  the  great  schoolhouse 
on  the  hill,  and  it  was  a  rare  comfort  to  this  yearning, 
foolish  woman  to  know  that  she  was  so  near.  But  at  this 
moment  Carry  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her  bed,  half 
undressed,  pouting  her  pretty  lips,  and  twisting  her  long, 
leonine  locks  between  her  fingers,  as  Miss  Kate  Van 
Corlear,  dramatically  wrapped  in  a  long  white  counterpane, 
her  black  eyes  sparkling,  and  her  thoroughbred  nose  thrown 
high  in  the  air,  stood  over  her  like  a  wrathful  and  indignant 
ghost ;  for  Carry  had  that  evening  imparted  her  woes  and 
her  history  to  Miss  Kate,  and  that  young  lady  had  "proved 


IO4  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

herself  no  friend,"  by  falling  into  a  state  of  fiery  indignation 
over  Carry's  "ingratitude,"  and  openly  and  shamelessly 
espousing  the  claims  of  Mrs.  Starbottle.  "  Why,  if  the  half 
you  tell  me  is  true,  your  mother  and  those  Robinsons  are 
making  of  you  not  only  a  little  coward  but  a  little  snob, 
miss.  Respectability,  forsooth !  Look  you  !  my  family  are 
centuries  before  the  Trethericks,  but  if  my  family  had  ever 
treated  me  in  this  way,  and  then  asked  me  to  turn  my  back 
on  my  best  friend,  I'd  whistle  them  down  the  wind  !  "  and 
here  Kate  snapped  her  fingers,  bent  her  black  brows,  and 
glared  around  the  room,  as  if  in  search  of  a  recreant  Van 
Corlear. 

"  You  just  talk  this  way  because  you  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  that  Mr.  Prince,"  said  Carry. 

In  the  debasing  slang  of  the  period  that  had  even  found 
its  way  into  the  virgin  cloisters  of  the  Crammer  Institute, 
Miss  Kate,  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it,  instantly  "  went 
for  her." 

First,  with  a  shake  of  her  head  she  threw  her  long  black 
hair  over  one  shoulder,  then  dropping  one  end  of  the 
counterpane  from  the  other  like  a  vestal  tunic,  she  stepped 
before  Carry  with  a  purposely  exaggerated  classic  stride. 
"  And  what  if  I  have,  miss  ?  What  if  I  happen  to  know  a 
gentleman  when  I  see  him?  What  if  I  happen  to  know 
that  among  a  thousand  such  traditional,  conventional,  feeble 
editions  of  their  grandfathers  as  Mr.  Harry  Robinson,  you 
cannot  find  one  original,  independent,  individualised  gentle- 
man like  your  Prince  !  Go  to  bed,  miss !  and  pray  to 
Heaven  that  he  may  be  your  Prince  indeed  !  Ask  to  have 
a  contrite  and  grateful  heart,  and  thank  the  Lord  in  par- 
ticular for  having  sent  you  such  a  friend  as  Kate  Van 
Corlear  ! "  Yet,  after  an  imposing  dramatic  exit,  she  reap- 
peared the  next  moment  as  a  straight  white  flash,  kissed 
Carry  between  the  brows,  and  was  gone. 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  105 

The  next  day  was  a  weary  one  to  Jack  Prince.  He  was 
convinced  in  his  mind  that  Carry  would  not  come,  yet  to 
keep  this  consciousness  from  Mrs.  Starbottle,  to  meet  her 
simple  hopefulness  with  an  equal  degree  of  apparent  faith, 
was  a  hard  and  difficult  task.  He  would  have  tried  to 
divert  her  mind  by  taking  her  on  a  long  drive,  but  she  was 
fearful  that  Carry  might  come  during  her  absence,  and  her 
strength,  he  was  obliged  to  admit,  had  failed  greatly.  As 
he  looked  into  her  large  and  awe-inspiring  clear  eyes,  a 
something  he  tried  to  keep  from  his  mind — to  put  off  day 
by  day  from  contemplation — kept  asserting  itself  directly 
to  his  inner  consciousness.  He  began  to  doubt  the  expe- 
diency and  wisdom  of  his  management ;  he  recalled  every 
incident  of  his  interview  with  Carry,  and  half  believed 
that  its  failure  was  due  to  himself.  Yet  Mrs.  Starbottle  was 
very  patient  and  confident ;  her  very  confidence  shook  his 
faith  in  his  own  judgment.  When  her  strength  was  equal 
to  the  exertion,  she  was  propped  up  in  her  chair  by  the 
window,  where  she  could  see  the  school  and  the  entrance 
to  the  hotel.  In  the  intervals  she  would  elaborate  pleasant 
plans  for  the  future,  and  would  sketch  a  country  home. 
She  had  taken  a  strange  fancy,  as  it  seemed  to  Prince,  to 
the  present  location,  but  it  was  notable  that  the  future 
always  thus  outlined  was  one  of  quiet  and  repose.  She 
believed  she  would  get  well  soon ;  in  fact  she  thought  she 
was  now  much  better  than  she  had  been,  but  it  might  be 
long  before  she  should  be  quite  strong  again.  She  would 
whisper  on  in  this  way  until  Jack  would  dash  madly  down 
into  the  bar-room,  order  liquors  that  he  did  not  drink, 
light  cigars  that  he  did  not  smoke,  talk  with  men  that  he 
did  not  listen  to,  and  behave  generally  as  our  stronger  sex 
is  apt  to  do  in  periods  of  delicate  trials  and  perplexity. 

The  day  closed  with  a  clouded  sky  and  a  bitter  searching 
wind.  With  the  night  fell  a  few  wandering  flakes  of  snow. 


io6  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

She  was  still  content  and  hopeful,  and  as  Jack  wheeled  her 
from  the  window  to  the  fire,  she  explained  to  him  how  that, 
as  the  school  term  was  drawing  near  its  close,  Carry  was 
probably  kept  closely  at  her  lessons  during  the  day,  and 
could  only  leave  the  school  at  night.  So  she  sat  up  the 
greater  part  of  the  evening  and  combed  her  silken  hair,  and, 
as  far  as  her  strength  would  allow,  made  an  undress  toilette 
to  receive  her  guest.  "We  must  not  frighten  the  child, 
Jack,"  she  said  apologetically  and  with  something  of  her 
old  coquetry. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that,  at  ten  o'clock,  Jack 
received  a  message  from  the  landlord,  saying  that  the 
doctor  would  like  to  see  him  for  a  moment  downstairs.  As 
Jack  entered  the  grim,  dimly-lighted  parlour,  he  observed 
the  hooded  figure  of  a  woman  near  the  fire.  He  was  about 
to  withdraw  again,  when  a  voice  that  he  remembered  very 
pleasantly  said — 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right.     I'm  the  doctor." 

The  hood  was  thrown  back,  and  Prince  saw  the  shining 
black  hair,  and  black,  audacious  eyes,  of  Kate  Van  Corlear. 

"  Don't  ask  any  questions.  I'm  the  doctor,  and  there's 
my  prescription,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  half-frightened, 
half-sobbing  Carry  in  the  corner  ;  "  to  be  taken  at  once  ! " 

"  Then  Mrs.  Tretherick  has  given  her  permission  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  if  I  know  the  sentiments  of  that  lady," 
replied  Kate  saucily. 

"  Then  how  did  you  get  away  ?  "  asked  Prince  gravely. 

"  BY  THE  WINDOW." 

When  Mr.  Prince  had  left  Carry  in  the  arms  of  her 
stepmother,  he  returned  to  the  parlour. 

"  Well  ?  "  demanded  Kate. 

"  She  will  stay — you  will,  I  hope,  also  to-night." 

"  As  I  shall  not  be  eighteen  and  my  own  mistress  on  the 
aoth,  and  as  I  haven't  a  sick  stepmother,  I  won't" 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  107 

"  Then  you  will  give  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  safely 
through  the  window  again  ?  " 

When  Mr.  Prince  returned  an  hour  later,  he  found  Carry 
sitting  on  a  low  stool  at  Mrs.  Starbottle's  feet.  Her  head 
was  in  her  stepmother's  lap,  and  she  had  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep.  Mrs.  Starbottle  put  her  finger  to  her  lip.  "  I  told 
you  she  would  come.  God  bless  you,  Jack,  and  good 
night." 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Tretherick,  indignant,  the  Rev. 
Asa  Crammer,  Principal,  injured,  and  Mr.  Joel  Robinson, 
Senior,  complacently  respectable,  called  upon  Mr.  Prince. 
There  was  a  stormy  meeting,  ending  in  a  demand  for 
Carry.  "  We  certainly  cannot  admit  of  this  interference," 
said  Mrs.  Tretherick,  a  fashionably- dressed,  indistinctive- 
looking  woman ;  "  it  is  several  days  before  the  expiration  of 
our  agreement,  and  we  do  not  feel,  under  the  circumstances, 
justified  in  releasing  Mrs.  Starbottle  from  its  conditions." 
"  Until  the  expiration  of  the  school  term,  we  must  consider 
Miss  Tretherick  as  complying  entirely  with  its  rules  and  dis- 
cipline," interposed  Dr.  Crammer.  "The  whole  proceeding 
is  calculated  to  injure  the  prospects  and  compromise  the 
position  of  Miss  Tretherick  in  society,"  suggested  Mr. 
Robinson. 

In  vain  Mr.  Prince  urged  the  failing  condition  of  Mrs. 
Starbottle,  her  absolute  freedom  from  complicity  with  Carry's 
flight,  the  pardonable  and  natural  instincts  of  the  girl,  and 
his  own  assurance  that  they  were  willing  to  abide  by  her 
decision.  And  then,  with  a  rising  colour  in  his  cheek,  a 
dangerous  look  in  his  eye,  but  a  singular  calmness  in  his 
speech,  he  added — 

"  One  word  more.  It  becomes  my  duty  to  inform  you 
of  a  circumstance  which  would  certainly  justify  me,  as  an 
executor  of  the  late  Mr.  Tretherick,  in  fully  resisting  your 
demands.  A  few.  months  after  Mr.  Tretherick's  death, 


1 08  An  Episode  of  Fiddletown. 

through  the  agency  of  a  Chinaman  in  his  employment,  it 
was  discovered  that  he  had  made  a  will,  which  was  subse- 
quently found  among  his  papers.  The  insignificant  value  of 
his  bequest — mostly  land,  then  quite  valueless — prevented 
his  executors  from  carrying  out  his  wishes,  or  from  even 
proving  the  will,  or  making  it  otherwise  publicly  known,  until 
within  the  last  two  or  three  years,  when  the  property  had 
enormously  increased  in  value.  The  provisions  of  that  be- 
quest are  simple,  but  unmistakable.  The  property  is  divided 
between  Carry  and  her  stepmother,  with  the  explicit  condi- 
tion that  -Mrs.  Starbottle  shall  become  her  legal  guardian, 
provide  for  her  education,  and  in  all  details  stand  to  her  in 
loco  parentis." 

"  What  is  the  value  of  this  bequest  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Robin- 
son. "I  cannot  tell  exactly,  but  not  far  from  half  a  million, 
I  should  say,"  returned  Prince.  "Certainly,  with  this 
knowledge,  as  a  friend  of  Miss  Tretherick,  I  must  say  that 
her  conduct  is  as  judicious  as  it  is  honourable  to  her," 
responded  Mr.  Robinson.  "  I  shall  not  presume  to  question 
the  wishes  or  throw  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  carrying  out 
the  intentions  of  my  dead  husband,"  added  Mrs.  Tretherick, 
and  the  interview  was  closed. 

When  its  result  was  made  known  to  Mrs.  Starbottle,  she 
raised  Jack's  hand  to  her  feverish  lips.  "  It  cannot  add  to 
my  happiness  now,  Jack,  but  tell  me,  why  did  you  keep  it 
from  her  ?  "  Jack  smiled,  but  did  not  reply. 

Within  the  next  week  the  necessary  legal  formalities  were 
concluded,  and  Carry  was  restored  to  her  stepmother.  At 
Mrs.  Starbottle's  request  a  small  house  in  the  outskirts  of  the 
town  was  procured,  and  thither  they  removed  to  wait  the 
spring  and  Mrs.  Starbottle's  convalescence.  Both  came 
tardily  that  year. 

Yet  she  was  happy  and  patient.  She  was  fond  of  watching 
the  budding  of  the  trees  beyond  her  window — a  novel  sight 


An  Episode  of  Fiddletown.  109 

to  her  Californian  experience — and  of  asking  Carry  their 
names  and  seasons.  Even  at  this  time  she  projected  for 
that  summer,  which  seemed  to  her  so  mysteriously  withheld, 
long  walks  with  Carry  through  the  leafy  woods  whose  gray, 
misty  ranks  she  could  see  along  the  hill-top.  She  even 
thought  she  could  write  poetry  about  them,  and  recalled 
the  fact  as  evidence  of  her  gaining  strength  ;  and  there  is,  I 
believe,  still  treasured  by  one  of  the  members  of  this  little 
household,  a  little  carol,  so  joyous,  so  simple,  and  so  innocent, 
that  it  might  have  been  an  echo  of  the  robin  that  called  to 
her  from  the  window,  as  perhaps  it  was. 

And  then  without  warning  there  dropped  from  heaven  a 
day  so  tender,  so  mystically  soft,  so  dreamily  beautiful,  so 
throbbing  and  alive  with  the  fluttering  of  invisible  wings,  so 
replete  and  bounteously  overflowing  with  an  awakening  and 
joyous  resurrection  not  taught  by  man  or  limited  by  creed—- 
that they  thought  it  fit  to  bring  her  out  and  lay  her  in  that 
glorious  sunshine  that  sprinkled  like  the  droppings  of  a 
bridal  torch  the  happy  lintels  and  doors.  And  there  she  lay, 
beatified  and  calm. 

Wearied  by  watching,  Carry  had  fallen  asleep  by  her  side, 
and  Mrs.  Starbottle's  thin  fingers  lay  like  a  benediction  on 
her  head.  Presently  she  called  Jack  to  her  side. 

"Who  was  that,"  she  whispered,  "who  just  came  in?" 

"  Miss  Van  Corlear,"  said  Jack,  answering  the  look  in  her 
great  hollow  eyes. 

"  Jack,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  silence,  "  sit  by  me  a 
moment,  dear  Jack ;  I've  something  I  must  say.  If  I  ever 
seemed  hard  or  cold  or  coquettish  to  you  in  the  old  days,  it 
was  because  I  loved  you,  Jack,  too  well  to  mar  your  future 
by  linking  it  with  my  own.  I  always  loved  you,  dear  Jack, 
even  when  I  seemed  least  worthy  of  you.  That  is  gone  now ; 
but  I  had  a  dream  lately,  Jack,  a  foolish  woman's  dream, 
that  you  might  find  what  I  lacked  in  her"  and  she  glanced 


no  An  Episode  of  Fiddle  town. 

lovingly  at  the  sleeping  girl  at  her  side — "  that  you  might 
love  her  as  you  have  loved  me.  But  even  that  is  not  to  be, 
Jack — is  it  ?  "  and  she  glanced  wistfully  in  his  face.  Jack 
pressed  her  hand,  but  did  not  speak.  After  a  few  moments' 
silence  she  again  said,  "  Perhaps  you  are  right  in  your 
choice.  She  is  a  good-hearted  girl,  Jack — but  a  little  bold." 
And  with  this  last  flicker  of  foolish,  weak  humanity  in  her 
struggling  spirit,  she  spoke  no  more.  When  they  came  to 
her  a  moment  later,  a  tiny  bird  that  had  lit  upon  her  breast 
flew  away,  and  the  hand  that  they  lifted  from  Carry's  head 
fell  lifeless  at  her  side. 


(  III  ) 


in  ttje  £ife  of 


HE  always  thought  it  must  have  been  Fate.  Certainly 
nothing  could  have  been  more  inconsistent  with  his  habits 
than  to  have  been  in  the  Plaza  at  seven  o'clock  of  that 
midsummer  morning.  The  sight  of  his  colourless  face  in 
Sacramento  was  rare  at  that  season,  and  indeed  at  any 
season,  anywhere,  publicly,  before  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. Looking  back  upon  it  in  after  years,  in  the  light  of 
a  chanceful  life,  he  determined,  with  the  characteristic 
philosophy  of  his  profession,  that  it  must  have  been  Fate. 

Yet  it  is  my  duty,  as  a  strict  chronicler  of  facts,  to  state 
that  Mr.  Oakhurst's  presence  there  that  morning  was  due 
to  a  very  simple  cause.  At  exactly  half-past  six,  the  bank 
being  then  a  winner  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand 
dollars,  he  had  risen  from  the  faro-table,  relinquished  his 
seat  to  an  accomplished  assistant,  and  withdrawn  quietly, 
without  attracting  a  glance  from  the  silent,  anxious  faces 
bowed  over  the  table.  But  when  he  entered  his  luxurious 
sleeping-room,  across  the  passage-way,  he  was  a  little 
shocked  at  finding  the  sun  streaming  through  an  inadver- 
tently-opened window.  Something  in  the  rare  beauty  of  the 
morning,  perhaps  something  in  the  novelty  of  the  idea? 
struck  him  as  he*  was  about  to  close  the  blinds,  and  he 
hesitated.  Then,  taking  his  hat  from  the  table,  he  stepped 
down  a  private  staircase  into  the  street. 


H2  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

The  people  who  were  abroad  at  that  early  hour  were  of 
a  class  quite  unknown  to  Mr.  Oakhurst.  There  were  milk- 
men and  hucksters  delivering  their  wares,  small  trades- 
people opening  their  shops,  housemaids  sweeping  door- 
steps, and  occasionally  a  child.  These  Mr.  Oakhurst 
regarded  with  a  certain  cold  curiosity,  perhaps  quite  free 
from  the  cynical  disfavour  with  which  he  generally  looked 
upon  the  more  pretentious  of  his  race  whom  he  was  in  the 
habit  of  meeting.  Indeed,  I  think  he  was  not  altogether 
displeased  with  the  admiring  glances  which  these  humble 
women  threw  after  his  handsome  face  and  figure,  conspi- 
cuous even  in  a  country  of  fine-looking  men.  While  it  is 
very  probable  that  this  wicked  vagabond,  in  the  pride  of  his 
social  isolation,  would  have  been  coldly  indifferent  to  the 
advances  of  a  fine  lady,  a  little  girl  who  ran  admiringly  by 
his  side  in  a  ragged  dress  had  the  power  to  call  a  faint  flush 
into  his  colourless  cheek.  He  dismissed  her  at  last,  but 
not  until  she  had  found  out — what  sooner  or  later  her  large- 
hearted  and  discriminating  sex  inevitably  did — that  he  was 
exceedingly  free  and  open-handed  with  his  money,  and  also 
— what  perhaps  none  other  of  her  sex  ever  did — that  the 
bold  black  eyes  of  this  fine  gentleman  were  in  reality  of  a 
brownish  and  even  tender  gray. 

There  was  a  small  garden  before  a  white  cottage  in  a 
side  street  that  attracted  Mr.  Oakhurst's  attention.  It  was 
filled  with  roses,  heliotrope,  and  verbena — flowers  familiar 
enough  to  him  in  the  expensive  and  more  portable  form  of 
bouquets,  but,  as  it  seemed  to  him  then,  never  before  so 
notably  lovely.  Perhaps  it  was  because  the  dew  was  yet 
fresh  upon  them,  perhaps  it  was  because  they  were  un- 
plucked,  but  Mr.  Oakhurst  admired  them,  not  as  a  possible 
future  tribute  to  the  fascinating  and  accomplished  Miss 
Ethelinda,  then  performing  at  the  Varieties,  for  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst's  especial  benefit,  as  she  had  often  assured  him — nor 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  1 1 3 

yet  as  a  douceur  to  the  enthralling  Miss  Montmorrissy,  with 
whom  Mr.  Oakhurst  expected  to  sup  that  evening,  but 
simply  for  himself,  and  mayhap  for  the  flowers'  sake.  How- 
beit  he  passed  on  and  so  out  into  the  open  plaza,  where, 
finding  a  bench  under  a  cotton-wood  tree,  he  first  dusted 
the  seat  with  his  handkerchief,  and  then  sat  clown. 

It  was  a  fine  morning.  The  air  was  so  still  and  calm 
that  a  sigh  from  the  sycamores  seemed  like  the  deep-drawn 
breath  of  the  just  awakening  tree,  and  the  faint  rustle  of  its 
boughs  as  the  outstretching  of  cramped  and  reviving  limbs. 
Far  away  the  Sierras  stood  out  against  a  sky  so  remote  as 
to  be  of  no  positive  colour ;  so  remote  that  even  the  sun 
despaired  of  ever  reaching  it,  and  so  expended  its  strength 
recklessly  on  the  whole  landscape,  until  it  fairly  glittered  in 
a  white  and  vivid  contrast.  With  a  very  rare  impulse,  Mr. 
Oakhurst  took  off  his  hat,  and  half  reclined  on  the  bench, 
with  his  face  to  the  sky.  Certain  birds  who  had  taken  a 
critical  attitude  on  a  spray  above  him  apparently  began  an 
animated  discussion  regarding  his  possible  malevolent  in- 
tentions. One  or  two,  emboldened  by  the  silence,  hopped 
on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  until  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the 
gravel  walk  frightened  them  away. 

Looking  up,  he  saw  a  man  coming  slowly  towards  him, 
wheeling  a  nondescript  vehicle  in  which  a  woman  was  partly 
sitting,  partly  reclining.  Without  knowing  why,  Mr.  Oak 
hurst  instantly  conceived  that  the  carriage  was  the  invention 
and  workmanship  of  the  man,  partly  from  its  oddity,  partly 
from  the  strong,  mechanical  hand  that  grasped  it,  and  partly 
from  a  certain  pride  and  visible  consciousness  in  the  manner 
in  which  the  man  handled  it  Then  Mr.  Oakhurst  saw 
something  more :  the  man's  face  was  familiar.  With  that 
regal  faculty  of  not  forgetting  a  face  that  had  ever  given 
him  professional  audience,  he  instantly  classified  it  under 
the  following  mental  formula : — "  At  'Frisco,  Polka  Saloon. 

VOL.  III.  H 


114  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

Lost  his  week's  wages.  I  reckon — seventy  dollars — on  red. 
Never  came  again."  There  was,  however,  no  trace  of  this 
in  the  calm  eyes  and  unmoved  face  that  he  turned  upon 
the  stranger,  who,  on  the  contrary,  blushed,  looked  embar- 
rassed, hesitated,  and  then  stopped  with  an  involuntary 
motion  that  brought  the  carriage  and  its  fair  occupant  face 
to  face  with  Mr.  Oakhurst. 

I  should  hardly  do  justice  to  the  position  she  will  tfccupy 
in  this  veracious  chronicle  by  describing  the  lady  now — if, 
indeed,  I  am  able  to  do  it  at  all.  Certainly,  the  popular 
estimate  was  conflicting.  The  late  Colonel  Starbottle — to 
whose  large  experience  of  a  charming  sex  I  have  before 
been  indebted  for  many  valuable  suggestions — had,  I  re- 
gret to  say,  depreciated  her  fascinations.  "  A  yellow-faced 
cripple,  by  dash — a  sick  woman,  with  mahogany  eyes.  One 
of  your  blanked  spiritual  creatures — with  no  flesh  on  her 
bones."  On  the  other  hand,  however,  she  enjoyed  later 
much  complimentary  disparagement  from  her  own  sex. 
Miss  Celestina  Howard,  second  leader  in  the  ballet  at  the 
Varieties,  had,  with  great  alliterative  directness,  in  after 
years,  denominated  her  as  an  "  aquiline  asp."  Mile.  Brim- 
borion  remembered  that  she  had  always  warned  "Mr. 
Jack  "  that  this  woman  would  "  empoison  "  him.  But  Mr. 
Oakhurst,  whose  impressions  are  perhaps  the  most  impor- 
tant, only  saw  a  pale,  thin,  deep-eyed  woman — raised  above 
the  level  of  her  companion  by  the  refinement  of  long  suffer- 
ing and  isolation,  and  a  certain  shy  virginity  of  manner. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  physical  purity  in  the  folds  of  her 
fresh-looking  robe,  and  a  certain  picturesque  tastefulness  in 
the  details,  that,  without  knowing  why,  made  him  think  that 
the  robe  was  her  invention  and  handiwork,  even  as  the 
carriage  she  occupied  was  evidently  the  work  of  her  com- 
panion. Her  own  hand,  a  trifle  too  thin,  but  well-shaped, 
subtle-fingered,  and  gentlewomanly,  rested  on  the  side  of 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  115 

the  carriage,  the  counterpart  of  the  strong  mechanical  grasp 
of  her  companion's. 

There  was  some  obstruction  to  the  progress  of  the  vehicle, 
and  Mr.  Oakhurst  stepped  forward  to  assist.  While  the 
wheel  was  being  lifted  over  the  curbstone,  it  was  necessary 
that  she  should  hold  his  arm,  and  for  a  moment  her  thin 
hand  rested  there,  light  and  cold  as  a  snowflake,  and  then 
— as  it  seemed  to  him — like  a  snowflake  melted  away. 
Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  then  conversation — the  lady 
joining  occasionally  and  shyly. 

It  appeared  that  they  were  man  and  wife.  That  for  the 
past  two  years  she  had  been  a  great  invalid,  and  had  lost 
the  use  of  her  lower  limbs  from  rheumatism.  That  until 
lately  she  had  been  confined  to  her  bed,  until  her  husband 
— who  was  a  master  carpenter — had  bethought  himself  to 
make  her  this  carriage.  He  took  her  out  regularly  for  an 
airing  before  going  to  work,  because  it  was  his  only  time, 
and — they  attracted  less  attention.  They  had  tried  many 
doctors,  but  without  avail.  They  had  been  advised  to  go 
to  the  Sulphur  Springs,  but  it  was  expensive.  Mr.  Decker, 
the  husband,  had  once  saved  eighty  dollars  for  that  purpose, 
but  while  in  San  Francisco  had  his  pocket  picked — Mr. 
Decker  was  so  senseless.  (The  intelligent  reader  need  not 
be  told  that  it  is  the  lady  who  is  speaking.)  They  had  never 
been  able  to  make  up  the  sum  again,  and  they  had  given 
up  the  idea.  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  have  one's  pocket 
picked.  Did  he  not  think  so  ? 

Her  husband's  face  was  crimson,  but  Mr.  Oakhurst's 
countenance  was  quite  calm  and  unmoved,  as  he  gravely 
agreed  with  her,  and  walked  by  her  side  until  they  passed 
the  little  garden  that  he  had  admired.  Here  Mr.  Oakhurst 
commanded  a  halt,  and,  going  to  the  door,  astounded  the 
proprietor  by  a  preposterously  extravagant  offer  for  a  choice 
of  the  flowers.  Presently  he  returned  to  the  carriage  with 


1 1 6  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

his  arms  full  of  roses,  heliotrope,  and  verbena,  and  cast 
them  in  the  lap  of  the  invalid.  While  she  was  bending 
over  them  with  childish  delight,  Mr.  Oakhurst  took  the 
opportunity  of  drawing  her  husband  aside. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  and  a  manner  quite 
free  from  any  personal  annoyance,  "perhaps  it's  just  as 
well  that  you  lied  to  her  as  you  did.  You  can  say  now  that 
the  pickpocket  was  arrested  the  other  day,  and  you  got 
your  money  back."  Mr.  Oakhurst  quietly  slipped  four 
twenty-dollar  gold  pieces  into  the  broad  hand  of  the  be- 
wildered Mr.  Decker.  "Say  that — or  anything  you  like — 
but  the  truth.  Promise  me  you  won't  say  that ! " 

The  man  promised.  Mr.  Oakhurst  quietly  returned  to 
the  front  of  the  little  carriage.  The  sick  woman  was  still 
eagerly  occupied  with  the  flowers,  and  as  she  raised  her  eyes 
to  his,  her  faded  cheek  seemed  to  have  caught  some  colour 
from  the  roses,  and  her  eyes  some  of  their  dewy  freshness. 
But  at  that  instant  Mr.  Oakhurst  lifted  his  hat,  and  before 
she  could  thank  him  was  gone. 

I  grieve  to  say  that  Mr.  Decker  shamelessly  broke  his 
promise.  That  night,  in  the  very  goodness  of  his  heart  and 
uxorious  self-abnegation — he,  like  all  devoted  husbands,  not 
only  offered  himself,  but  his  friend  and  benefactor,  as  a 
sacrifice  on  the  family  altar.  It  is  only  fair,  however,  to 
add,  that  he  spoke  with  great  fervour  of  the  generosity  of 
Mr.  Oakhurst,  and  dealt  with  an  enthusiasm  quite  common 
with  his  class  on  the  mysterious  fame  and  prodigal  vices  of 
the  gambler. 

"  And  now,  Elsie,  dear,  say  that  you'll  forgive  me,"  said 
Mr.  Decker,  dropping  on  one  knee  beside  his  wife's  couch ; 
"  I  did  it  for  the  best.  It  was  for  you,  dearey,  that  I  put 
that  money  on  them  cards  that  night  in  'Frisco.  I  thought 
to  win  a  heap — enough  to  take  you  away,  and  enough  left 
to  get  you  a  new  dress." 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  117 

Mrs.  Decker  smiled  and  pressed  her  husband's  hand. 
"  I  do  forgive  you,  Joe,  dear,"  she  said,  still  smiling,  with 
eyes  abstractedly  fixed  on  the  ceiling ;  "  and  you  ought  to 
be  whipped  for  deceiving  me  so,  you  bad  boy,  and  making 
me  make  such  a  speech.  There,  say  no  more  about  it.  If 
you'll  be  very  good  hereafter,  and  will  just  now  hand  me 
that  cluster  of  roses,  I'll  forgive  you."  She  took  the  branch 
in  her  fingers,  lifted  the  roses  to  her  face,  and  presently  said, 
behind  their  leaves — 

"Joe!" 

"What  is  it,  lovey?" 

"Do  you  think  that  this  Mr. — what  do  you  call  him? — 
Jack  Oakhurst  would  have  given  that  money  back  to  you 
if  I  hadn't  made  that  speech  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  If  he  hadn't  seen  me  at  all?  " 

Mr.  Decker  looked  up.  His  wife  had  managed  in  some 
way  to  cover  up  her  whole  face  with  the  roses,  except  her 
eyes,  which  were  dangerously  bright. 

"No:  it  was  you,  Elsie — it  was  all  along  of  seeing  you 
that  made  him  do  it." 

"  A  poor  sick  woman  like  me  ?  " 

"A  sweet,  little,  lovely,  pooty  Elsie — Joe's  own  little 
wifey  !  How  could  he  help  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Decker  fondly  cast  one  arm  around  her  husband's 
neck,  still  keeping  the  roses  to  her  face  with  the  other. 
From  behind  them  she  began  to  murmur  gently  and  idioti- 
cally, "Dear,  ole  square  Joey.  Elsie's  oney  booful  big 
bear."  But,  really,  I  do  not  see  that  my  duty  as  a  chroni- 
cler of  facts  compels  me  to  continue  this  little  lady's  speech 
any  further,  and  out  of  respect  to  the  unmarried  reader  I 
stop. 

Nevertheless,  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Decker  betrayed 
some  slight  and  apparently  uncalled-for  irritability  on  reach- 


1 1 8  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

ing  the  plaza,  and  presently  desired  her  husband  to  wheel 
her  back  home.  Moreover,  she  was  very  much  astonished 
at  meeting  Mr.  Oakhurst  just  as  they  were  returning,  and 
even  doubted  if  it  were  he,  and  questioned  her  husband  as  to 
his  identity  with  the  stranger  of  yesterday  as  he  approached. 
Her  manner  to  Mr.  Oakhurst,  also,  was  quite  in  contrast 
with  her  husband's  frank  welcome.  Mr.  Oakhurst  instantly 
detected  it.  "  Her  husband  has  told  her  all,  and  she  dis- 
likes me,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  that  fatal  appreciation  of 
the  half  truths  of  a  woman's  motives  that  causes  the  wisest 
masculine  critic  to  stumble.  He  lingered  only  long  enough 
to  take  the  business  address  of  the  husband,  and  then  lift' 
ing  his  hat  gravely,  without  looking  at  the  lady,  went  his 
way.  It  struck  the  honest  master  carpenter  as  one  of  the 
charming  anomalies  of  his  wife's  character,  that,  although 
the  meeting  was  evidently  very  much  constrained  and  un- 
pleasant, instantly  afterward  his  wife's  spirits  began  to  rise. 
"  You  was  hard  on  him — a  leetle  hard,  wasn't  you,  Elsie  ?  " 
said  Mr.  Decker  deprecatingly.  "  I'm  afraid  he  may  think 
I've  broke  my  promise."  "  Ah,  indeed,"  said  the  lady 
indifferently.  Mr.  Decker  instantly  stepped  round  to  the 
front  of  the  vehicle.  "  You  look  like  an  A  i  first-class  lady 
riding  down  Broadway  in  her  own  carriage,  Elsie,"  said  he ; 
"I  never  seed  you  loqkin'  so  peart  and  sassy  before." 

A  few  days  later  the  proprietor  of  the  San  Isabel  Sulphur 
Springs  received  the  following  note  in  Mr.  Oakhurst's  well- 
known  dainty  hand : — 

"  DEAR  STEVE, — I've  been  thinking  over  your  proposition 
to  buy  Nichols'  quarter  interest,  and  have  concluded  to  go 
in.  But  I  don't  see  how  the  thing  will  pay  until  you  have 
more  accommodation  down  there,  and  for  the  best  class — 
I  mean  my  customers.  What  we  want  is  an  extension  to 
the  main  building,  and  two  or  three  cottages  put  up.  I 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  119 

send  down  a  builder  to  take  hold  of  the  job  at  once.  He 
takes  his  sick  wife  with  him,  and  you  are  to  look  after  them 
as  you  would  for  one  of  us. 

"  I  may  run  down  there  myself,  after  the  races,  just  to  look 
after  things ;  but  I  shan't  set  upon  any  game  this  season. — 
Yours  always,  JOHN  OAKHURST." 

It  was  only  the  last  sentence  of  this  letter  that  pro- 
voked criticism.  "I  can  understand,"  said  Mr.  Hamlin, 
a  professional  brother,  to  whom  Mr.  Oakhurst's  letter  was 
shown — "  I  can  understand  why  Jack  goes  in  heavy  and 
builds,  for  it's  a  sure  spec,  and  is  bound  to  be  a  mighty 
soft  thing  in  time,  if  he  comes  here  regularly.  But  why  in 
blank  he  don't  set  up  a  bank  this  season  and  take  the  chance 
of  getting  some  of  the  money  back  that  he  puts  into  circula- 
tion in  building,  is  what  gets  me.  I  wonder  now,"  he  mused 
deeply,  "what  is  his  little  game." 

The  season  had  been  a  prosperous  one  to  Mr.  Oakhurst, 
and  proportionally  disastrous  to  several  members  of  the 
Legislature,  judges,  colonels,  and  others  who  had  enjoyed 
but  briefly  the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Oakhurst's  midnight  society. 
And  yet  Sacramento  had  become  very  dull  to  him.  He 
had  lately  formed  a  habit  of  early-morning  walks  —  so 
unusual  and  startling  to  his  friends,  both  male  and  female, 
as  to  occasion  the  intensest  curiosity.  Two  or  three  of  the 
latter  set  spies  upon  his  track,  but  the  inquisition  resulted 
only  in  the  discovery  that  Mr.  Oakhurst  walked  to  the 
plaza,  sat  down  upon  one  particular  bench  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  returned  without  seeing  anybody,  and 
the  theory  that  there  was  a  woman  in  the  case  was  aban- 
doned. A  few  superstitious  gentlemen  of  his  own  profession 
believed  that  he  did  it  /or  "  luck."  Some  others,  more 
practical,  declared  that  he  went  out  to  "  study  points." 

After  the  races  at  Marysville,  Mr.  Oakhurst  went  to  San 


1 20  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

Francisco ;  from  that  place  he  returned  to  Marys ville,  but 
a  few  days  after  was  seen  at  San  Jose,  Santa  Cruz,  and 
Oakland.  Those  who  met  him  declared  that  his  manner 
was  restless  and  feverish,  and  quite  unlike  his  ordinary 
calmness  and  phlegm.  Colonel  Starbottle  pointed  out  the 
fact  that  at  San  Francisco,  at  the  club,  Jack  had  declined  to 
deal.  "  Hand  shaky,  sir — depend  upon  it ;  don't  stimulate 
enough — blank  him  !  " 

From  San  Josd  he  started  to  go  to  Oregon  by  land  with 
a  rather  expensive  outfit  of  horses  and  camp  equipage,  but 
on  reaching  Stockton  he  suddenly  diverged,  and  four  hours 
later  found  him  with  a  single  horse  entering  the  canon  of 
the  San  Isabel  Warm  Sulphur  Springs. 

It  was  a  pretty  triangular  valley  lying  at  the  foot  of  three 
sloping  mountains,  dark  with  pines  and  fantastic  with 
madrono  and  manzanita.  Nestling  against  the  mountain 
side,  the  straggling  buildings  and  long  piazza  of  the  hotel 
glittered  through  the  leaves ;  and  here  and  there  shone  a 
white  toy-like  cottage.  Mr.  Oakhurst  was  not  an  admirer 
of  nature,  but  he  felt  something  of  the  same  novel  satisfac- 
tion in  the  view  that  he  experienced  in  his  first  morning 
walk  in  Sacramento.  And  now  carriages  began  to  pass 
him  on  the  road  filled  with  gaily-dressed  women,  and  the 
cold  California  outlines  of  the  landscape  began  to  take 
upon  themselves  somewhat  of  a  human  warmth  and  colour. 
And  then  the  long  hotel  piazza  came  in  view,  efflorescent 
with  the  full-toileted  fair.  Mr.  Oakhurst,  a  good  rider 
after  the  California  fashion,  did  not  check  his  speed  as  he 
approached  his  destination,  but  charged  the  hotel  at  a 
gallop,  threw  his  horse  on  his  haunches  within  a  foot  of 
trie  piazza,  and  then  quietly  emerged  from  the  cloud  of 
dust  that  veiled  his  dismounting.  9 

Whatever  feverish  excitement  might  have  raged  within, 
all  his  habitual  calm  returned  as  he  stepped  upon  the 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  121 

piazza.  With  the  instinct  of  long  habit  he  turned  and 
faced  the  battery  of  eyes  with  the  same  cold  indifference 
•with  which  he  had  for  years  encountered  the  half-hidden 
sneers  of  men  and  the  half-frightened  admiration  of  women. 
Only  one  person  stepped  forward  to  welcome  him.  Oddly 
enough,  it  was  Dick  Hamilton,  perhaps  the  only  one 
present  who,  by  birth,  education,  and  position,  might  have 
satisfied  the  most  fastidious  social  critic.  Happily  for  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  reputation,  he  was  also  a  very  rich  banker  and 
social  leader.  "  Do  you  know  who  that  is  you  spoke  to  ?  " 
asked  young  Parker,  with  an  alarmed  expression.  "  Yes," 
replied  Hamilton,  with  characteristic  effrontery ;  "  the  man 
you  lost  a  thousand  dollars  to  last  week.  /  only  know 
him  socially"  "  But  isn't  he  a  gambler?"  queried  the 
youngest  Miss  Smith.  "  He  is,"  replied  Hamilton,  "  but  I 
wish,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  we  all  played  as  open  and 
honest  a  game  as  our  friend  yonder,  and  were  as  willing  as 
he  is  to  abide  by  its  fortunes." 

But  Mr.  Oakhurst  was  happily  out  of  hearing  of  this 
colloquy,  and  was  even  then  lounging  listlessly,  yet  watch- 
fully, along  the  upper  hall.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  light 
footstep  behind  him,  and  then  his  name  called  in  a  familiar 
voice  that  drew  the  blood  quickly  to  his  heart.  He  turned, 
and  she  stood  before  him. 

But  how  transformed  !  If  I  have  hesitated  to  describe 
the  hollow-eyed  cripple — the  quaintly-dressed  artisan's  wife, 
a  few  pages  ago — what  shall  I  do  with  this  graceful,  shapely, 
elegantly-attired  gentlewoman  into  whom  she  has  been 
merged  within  these  two  months  ?  In  good  faith,  she  was 
very  pretty.  You  and  I,  my  dear  madam,  would  have 
been  quick  to  see  that  those  charming  dimples  were  mis- 
placed for  true  beauty,  and  too  fixed  in  their  quality  for 
honest  mirth  fulness,  that  the  delicate  lines  around  these 
aquiline  nostrils  were  cruel  and  selfish,  that  the  sweet, 


122  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

virginal  surprise  of  these  lovely  eyes  were  as  apt  to  be 
opened  on  her  plate  as  upon  the  gallant  speeches  of  her 
dinner  partner,  that  her  sympathetic  colour  came  and  went 
more  with  her  own  spirits  than  yours.  But  you  and  I  are 
not  in  love  with  her,  dear  madam,  and  Mr.  Oakhurst  is. 
And  even  in  the  folds  of  her  Parisian  gown,  I  am  afraid 
this  poor  fellow  saw  the  same  subtle  strokes  of  purity  that 
he  had  seen  in  her  homespun  robe.  And  then  there  was 
the  delightful  revelation  that  she  could  walk,  and  that  she 
had  dear  little  feet  of  her  own  in  the  tiniest  slippers  of  her 
French  shoemaker — with  such  preposterous  blue  bows,  and 
ChappelPs  own  stamp,  Rue  de  something  or  other,  Paris, 
on  the  narrow  sole. 

He  ran  towards  her  with  a  heightened  colour  and  out- 
stretched hands.  But  she  whipped  her  own  behind  her, 
glanced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  long  hall,  and  stood 
looking  at  him  with  a  half-audacious,  half-mischievous 
admiration  in  utter  contrast  to  her  old  reserve. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  not  to  shake  hands  with  you  at  all. 
You  passed  me  just  now  on  the  piazza  without  speaking, 
and  I  ran  after  you,  as  I  suppose  many  another  poor  woman 
has  done." 

Mr.  Oakhurst  stammered  that  she  was  so  changed. 

"  The  more  reason  why  you  should  know  me.  Who 
changed  me  ?  You.  You  have  recreated  me.  You  found 
a  helpless,  crippled,  sick,  poverty-stricken  woman,  with  one 
dress  to  her  back,  and  that  her  own  make,  and  you  gave 
her  life,  health,  strength,  and  fortune.  You  did,  and  you 
know  it,  sir.  How  do  you  like  your  work  ?  "  She  caught 
the  side  seams  of  her  gown  in  either  hand  and  dropped  him 
a  playful  courtesy.  Then,  with  a  sudden,  relenting  gesture, 
she  gave  him  both  her  hands. 

Outrageous  as  this  speech  was,  and  unfeminine,  as  I 
trust  every  fair  reader  will  deem  it,  I  fear  it  pleased  Mr. 


of  Mr.  John  Oakkurst.  123 

Oakhurst.  Not  but  that  he  was  accustomed  to  a  certain 
frank  female  admiration ;  but  then  it  was  of  the  coulisses 
and  not  of  the  cloister,  with  which  he  always  persisted  in 
associating  Mrs.  Decker.  To  be  addressed  in  this  way 
by  an  invalid  Puritan,  a  sick  saint,  with  the  austerity  of 
suffering  still  clothing  her ;  a  woman  who  had  a  Bible  on 
the  dressing-table,  who  went  to  church  three  times  a  day, 
and  was  devoted  to  her  husband,  completely  bowled  him 
over.  He  still  held  her  hands  as  she  went  on — 

"Why  didn't  you  come  before?  What  were  you  doing 
in  Marysville,  in  San  Josd,  in  Oakland  ?  You  see  I  have 
followed  you.  I  saw  you  as  you  came  down  the  canon, 
and  knew  you  at  once.  I  saw  your  letter  to  Joseph,  and 
knew  you  were  coming.  Why  didn't  you  write  to  me  ? 
You  will  some  time  !  Good  evening,  Mr.  Hamilton." 

She  had  withdrawn  her  hands,  but  not  until  Hamilton, 
ascending  the  staircase,  was  nearly  abreast  of  them.  He 
raised  his  hat  to  her  with  well-bred  composure,  nodded 
familiarly  to  Oakhurst,  and  passed  on.  When  he  had  gone 
Mrs.  Decker  lifted  her  eyes  to  Mr.  Oakhurst.  "  Some  day 
I  shall  ask  a  great  favour  of  you  ! " 

Mr.  Oakhurst  begged  that  it  should  be  now.  "  No,  not 
until  you  know  me  better.  Then,  some  day,  I  shall  want 
you  to — kill  that  man  ! " 

She  laughed,  such  a  pleasant  little  ringing  laugh,  such  a 
display  of  dimples — albeit  a  little  fixed  in  the  corners  of 
her  mouth — such  an  innocent  light  in  her  brown  eyes,  and 
such  a  lovely  colour  in  her  cheeks,  that  Mr.  Oakhurst — who 
seldom  laughed — was  fain  to  laugh  too.  It  was  as  if  a 
lamb  had  proposed  to  a  fox  a  foray  into  a  neighbouring 
sheepfold. 

A  few  evenings  after  this,  Mrs.  Decker  arose  from  a 
charmed  circle  of  her  admirers  on  the  hotel  piazza,  excused 
herself  for  a  few  moments,  laughingly  declined  an  escort, 


124  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

and  ran  over  to  her  little  cottage — one  of  her  husband's 
creation— across  the  road.  Perhaps  from  the  sudden  and 
unwonted  exercise  in  her  still  convalescent  state,  she 
breathed  hurriedly  and  feverishly  as  she  entered  her  boudoir, 
and  once  or  twice  placed  her  hand  upon  her  breast.  She 
was  startled  on  turning  up  the  light  to  find  her  husband 
lying  on  the  sofa. 

"  You  look  hot  and  excited,  Elsie,  love,"  said  Mr.  Decker ; 
"  you  ain't  took  worse,  are  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Decker's  face  had  paled,  but  now  flushed  again. 
"No,"  she  said,  "only  a  little  pain  here,"  as  she  again 
placed  her  hand  upon  her  corsage. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  said  Mr.  Decker,  rising 
with  affectionate  concern. 

"Run  over  to  the  hotel  and  get  me  some  brandy, 
quick !  " 

Mr.  Decker  ran.  Mrs.  Decker  closed  and  bolted  the 
door,  and  then  putting  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  drew  out 
the  pain.  It  was  folded  four  square,  and  was,  I  grieve  to 
say,  in  Mr.  Oakhurst's  handwriting. 

She  devoured  it  with  burning  eyes  and  cheeks  until  there 
came  a  step  upon  the  porch.  Then  she  hurriedly  replaced 
it  in  her  bosom  and  unbolted  the  door.  Her  husband 
entered;  she  raised  the  spirits  to  her  lips  and  declared 
herself  better. 

'*  Are  you  going  over  there  again  to-night  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Decker  submissively. 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Decker,  with  her  eyes  fixed  dreamily 
on  the  floor. 

"  I  wouldn't  if  I  was  you,"  said  Mr.  Decker  with  a  sigh 
of  relief.  After  a  pause  he  took  a  seat  on  the  sofa,  and 
drawing  his  wife  to  his  side,  said,  "  Do  you  know  what  I  was 
thinking  of  when  you  came  in,  Elsie  ?  "  Mrs.  Decker  ran  her 
fingers  through  his  stiff  black  hair,  and  couldn't  imagine. 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  125 

"  I  was  thinking  of  old  times,  Elsie ;  I  was  thinking  of 
the  days  when  I  built  that  kerridge  for  you,  Elsie — when  I 
used  to  take  you  out  to  ride,  and  was  both  hoss  and  driver  ! 
We  was  poor  then,  and  you  was  sick,  Elsie,  but  we  was 
happy.  We've  got  money  now,  and  a  house,  and  you're 
quite  another  woman.  I  may  say,  dear,  that  you're  a  new 
woman.  And  that's  where  the  trouble  comes  in.  I  could 
build  you  a  kerridge,  Elsie;  I  could  build  you  a  house, 
Elsie — but  there  I  stopped.  I  couldn't  build  up  you. 
You're  strong  and  pretty,  Elsie,  and  fresh  and  new.  But 
somehow,  Elsie,  you  ain't  no  work  of  mine  ! " 

He  paused.  With  one  hand  laid  gently  on  his  forehead 
and  the  other  pressed  upon  her  bosom  as  if  to  feel  certain 
of  the  presence  of  her  pain,  she  said  sweetly  and 
soothingly — 

"  But  it  was  your  work,  dear." 

Mr.  Decker  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  "  No,  Elsie, 
not  mine.  I  had  the  chance  to  do  it  once  and  I  let  it  go. 
It's  done  now ;  but  not  by  me." 

Mrs.  Decker  raised  her  surprised,  innocent  eyes  to  his. 
He  kissed  her  tenderly  and  then  went  on  in  a  more  cheer- 
ful voice. 

"  That  ain't  all  I  was  thinking  of,  Elsie.  I  was  thinking 
that  maybe  you  give  too  much  of  your  company  to  that  Mr. 
Hamilton.  Not  that  there's  any  wrong  in  it,  to  you  or  him. 
But  it  might  make  people  talk.  You're  the  only  one  here, 
Elsie,"  said  the  master  carpenter,  looking  fondly  at  his  wife, 
"who  isn't  talked  about;  whose  work  ain't  inspected  or 
condemned  ?  " 

Mrs.  Decker  was  glad  he  had  spoken  about  it.  She  had 
thought  so,  too,  but  she  could  not  well  be  uncivil  to  Mr. 
Hamilton,  who  was  a  fine  gentleman,  without  making  a 
powerful  enemy.  "  And  he's  always  treated  me  as  if  I  was 
a  born  lady  in  his  own  circle,"  added  the  little  woman,  with 


126  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

a  certain  pride  that  made  her  husband  fondly  smile.  "  But 
I  have  thought  of  a  plan.  He  will  not  stay  here  if  I 
should  go  away.  If,  for  instance,  I  went  to  San  Francisco 
to  visit  ma  for  a  few  days,  he  would  be  gone  before  I 
should  return." 

Mr.  Decker  was  delighted.  "  By  all  means,"  he  said  ;  "go 
to-morrow.  Jack  Oakhurst  is  going  down,  and  I'll  put  you 
in  his  charge." 

Mrs.  Decker  did  not  think  it  was  prudent.  "  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst  is  our  friend,  Joseph,  but  you  know  his  reputation." 
In  fact,  she  did  not  know  that  she  ought  to  go  now,  knowing 
that  he  was  going  the  same  day  ;  but  with  a  kiss  Mr.  Decker 
overcame  her  scruples.  She  yielded  gracefully.  Few  women, 
in  fact,  knew  how  to  give  up  a  point  as  charmingly  as  she. 

She  stayed  a  week  in  San  Francisco.  When  she  returned 
she  was  a  trifle  thinner  and  paler  than  she  had  been.  This 
she  explained  as  the  result  of  perhaps  too  active  exercise  and 
excitement  "  I  was  out  of  doors  nearly  all  the  time,  as  ma 
will  tell  you,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "  and  always  alone. 
I  am  getting  quite  independent  now,"  she  added  gaily,  "  I 
don't  want  any  escort — I  believe,  Joey  dear,  I  could  get 
along  even  without  you — I'm  so  brave  ! " 

But  her  visit,  apparently,  had  not  been  productive  of  her 
impelling  design.  Mr.  Hamilton  had  not  gone,  but  had 
remained,  and  called  upon  them  that  very  evening.  "  I've 
thought  of  a  plan,  Joey,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Decker  when  he 
had  departed.  "  Poor  Mr.  Oakhurst  has  a  miserable  room 
at  the  hotel — suppose  you  ask  him  when  he  returns  from  San 
Francisco  to  stop  with  us.  He  can  have  our  spare  room. 
I  don't  think,"  she  added  archly,  "  that  Mr.  Hamilton  will 
call  often."  Her  husband  laughed,  intimated  that  she  was 
a  little  coquette,  pinched  her  cheek,  and  complied.  "  The 
queer  thing  about  a  woman,"  he  said  afterwards  confidentially 
to  Mr.  Oakhurst,  "  is,  that  without  having  any  plan  of  her 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  127 

own,  she'll  take  anybody's  and  build  a  house  on  it  entirely 
different  to  suit  herself.  And  dern  my  skin,  if  you'll  be  able 
to  say  whether  or  not  you  didn't  give  the  scale  and  measure- 
ments yourself.  That's  what  gets  me." 

The  next  week  Mr.  Oakhurst  was  installed  in  the  Deckers' 
cottage.  The  business  relations  of  her  husband  and  himself 
were  known  to  all,  and  her  own  reputation  was  above  sus- 
picion. Indeed,  few  women  were  more  popular.  She  was 
domestic,  she  was  prudent,  she  was  pious.  In  a  country  of 
great  feminine  freedom  and  latitude,  she  never  rode  or 
walked  with  anybody  but  her  husband ;  in  an  epoch  of 
slang  and  ambiguous  expression,  she  was  always  precise  and 
formal  in  her  speech;  in  the  midst  of  a  fashion  of  ostenta- 
tious decoration  she  never  wore  a  diamond,  nor  a  single 
valuable  jewel.  She  never  permitted  an  indecorum  in  public ; 
she  never  countenanced  the  familiarities  of  California  society. 
She  declaimed  against  the  prevailing  tone  of  infidelity  and 
scepticism  in  religion.  Few  people,  who  were  present,  will 
ever  forget  the  dignified  yet  stately  manner  with  which  she 
rebuked  Mr.  Hamilton  in  the  public  parlour  for  entering 
upon  the  discussion  of  a  work  on  materialism,  lately  pub- 
lished,— and  some  among  them,  also,  will  not  forget  the 
expression  of  amused  surprise  on  Mr.  Hamilton's  face  that 
gradually  changed  to  sardonic  gravity  as  he  courteously 
waived  his  point.  Certainly  not  Mr.  Oakhurst,  who,  from 
that  moment,  began  to  be  uneasily  impatient  of  his  friend, 
and  even — if  such  a  term  could  be  applied  to  any  moral 
quality  in  Mr.  Oakhurst — to  fear  him. 

For,  during  this  time,  Mr.  Oakhurst  had  begun  to  show 
symptoms  of  a  change  in  his  usual  habits.  He  was  seldom, 
if  ever,  seen  in  his  old  haunts,  in  a  bar-room,  or  with  his  old 
associates.  Pink  and  white  notes,  in  distracted  handwriting, 
accumulated  on  the  dressing-table  in  his  rooms  at  Sacra- 
mento. It  was  given  out  in  San  Francisco  that  he  had  some 


128  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

organic  disease  of  the  heart,  for  which  his  physician  had 
prescribed  perfect  rest.  He  read  more,  he  took  long  walks, 
he  sold  his  fast  horses,  he  went  to  church. 

I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection  of  his  first  appearance 
there.  He  did  not  accompany  the  Deckers,  nor  did  he  go 
into  their  pew,  but  came  in  as  the  service  commenced,  and 
took  a  seat  quietly  in  one  of  the  back  pews.  By  some  mys- 
terious instinct  his  presence  became  presently  known  to  the 
congregation,  some  of  whom  so  far  forgot  themselves,  in 
their  curiosity,  as  to  face  around  and  apparently  address 
their  responses  to  him.  Before  the  service  was  over  it  was 
pretty  well  understood  that  "  miserable  sinners  "  meant  Mr. 
Oakhurst.  Nor  did  this  mysterious  influence  fail  to  affect 
the  officiating  clergyman,  who  introduced  an  allusion  to  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  calling  and  habits  in  a  sermon  on  the  architecture 
of  Solomon's  Temple,  and  in  a  manner  so  pointed  and  yet 
laboured  as  to  cause  the  youngest  of  us  to  flame  with  indig- 
nation. Happily,  however,  it  was  lost  upon  Jack — I  do  not 
think  he  even  heard  it.  His  handsome,  colourless  face — 
albeit  a  trifle  worn  and  thoughtful — was  inscrutable.  Only 
once,  during  the  singing  of  a  hymn,  at  a  certain  note  in  the 
contralto's  voice,  there  crept  into  his  dark  eyes  a  look  of 
wistful  tenderness,  so  yearning  and  yet  so  hopeless  that  those 
who  were  watching  him  felt  their  own  glisten.  Yet  I  retain 
a  very  vivid  remembrance  of  his  standing  up  to  receive  the 
benediction,  with  the  suggestion,  in  his  manner  and  tightly- 
buttoned  coat,  of  taking  the  fire  of  his  adversary  at  ten 
paces.  After  church  he  disappeared  as  quietly  as  he  had 
entered,  and  fortunately  escaped  hearing  the  comments  on 
his  rash  act.  His  appearance  was  generally  considered  as 
an  impertinence — attributable  only  to  some  wanton  fancy — 
or  possibly  a  bet.  One  or  two  thought  that  the  sexton  was 
exceedingly  remiss  in  not  turning  him  out  after  discovering 
who  he  was ;  and  a  prominent  pewholder  remarked  that  if 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  129 

he  couldn't  take  his  wife  and  daughters  to  that  church 
without  exposing  them  to  such  an  influence,  he  would  try 
to  find  some  church  where  he  could.  Another  traced  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  presence  to  certain  Broad  Church  radical  ten- 
dencies, which  he  regretted  to  say  he  had  lately  noted  in 
their  pastor.  Deacon  Sawyer,  whose  delicately  organised, 
sickly  wife,  had  already  borne  him  eleven  children,  and  died 
in  an  ambitious  attempt  to  complete  the  dozen,  avowed  that 
the  presence  of  a  person  of  Mr.  Oakhurst's  various  and  in- 
discriminate gallantries,  was  an  insult  to  the  memory  of  the 
deceased,  that,  as  a  man,  he  could  not  brook. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Mr.  Oakhurst,  contrasting 
himself  with  a  conventional  world  in  which  he  had  hitherto 
rarely  mingled,  became  aware  that  there  was  something  in 
his  face,  figure,  and  carriage,  quite  unlike  other  men — 
something  that  if  it  did  not  betray  his  former  career,  at 
least  showed  an  individuality  and  originality  that  was 
suspicious.  In  this  belief  he  shaved  off  his  long,  silken 
moustache,  and  religiously  brushed  out  his  clustering  curls 
every  morning.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  affect  a  negli- 
gence of  dress  and  hid  his  small,  slim,  arched  feet  in  the 
largest  and  heaviest  walking  shoes.  There  is  a  story  told 
that  he  went  to  his  tailor  in  Sacramento,  and  asked  him  to 
make  him  a  suit  of  clothes  like  everybody  else.  The  tailor, 
familiar  with  Mr.  Oakhurst's  fastidiousness,  did  not  know 
what  he  meant.  "I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Oakhurst  savagely, 
"something  respectable — something  that  doesn't  exactly  fit 
me,  you  know."  But  however  Mr.  Oakhurst  might  hide 
his  shapely  limbs  in  homespun  and  home-made  garments, 
there  was  something  in  his  carriage,  something  in  the  pose 
of  his  beautiful  head,  something  in  the  strong  and  fine 
manliness  of  his  presence,  something  in  the  perfect  and 
utter  discipline  arid  control  of  his  muscles,  something  in 
the  high  repose  of  his  nature — a  repose  not  so  much  a 

VOL.    III.  I 


130  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

matter  of  intellectual  ruling  as  of  his  very  nature — that  go 
where  he  would,  and  with  whom,  he  was  always  a  notable 
man  in  ten  thousand.  Perhaps  this  was  never  so  clearly 
intimated  to  Mr.  Oakhurst  as  when,  emboldened  by  Mr. 
Hamilton's  advice  and  assistance  and  his  own  predilections, 
he  became  a  San  Francisco  broker.  Even  before  objection 
was  made  to  his  presence  in  the  Board — the  objection,  I 
remember,  was  urged  very  eloquently  by  Watt  Sanders, 
who  was  supposed  to  be  the  inventor  of  the  "  freezing  out " 
system  of  disposing  of  poor  stockholders,  and  who  also 
enjoyed  the  reputation  of  having  been  the  impelling  cause 
of  Briggs  of  Tuolumne's  ruin  and  suicide — even  before 
this  formal  protest  of  respectability  against  lawlessness,  the 
aquiline  suggestions  of  Mr.  Oakhurst's  mien  and  counte- 
nance, not  only  prematurely  fluttered  the  pigeons,  but  abso- 
lutely occasioned  much  uneasiness  among  the  fish-hawks, 
who  circled  below  him  with  their  booty.  "  Dash  me  ! 
but  he's  as  likely  to  go  after  us  as  anybody,"  said  Joe 
Fielding. 

It  wanted  but  a  few  days  before  the  close  of  the  brief 
summer  season  at  San  Isabel  Warm  Springs.  Already 
there  had  been  s^rne  migration  of  the  more  fashionable, 
and  there  was  an  uncomfortable  suggestion  of  dregs  and 
lees  in  the  social  life  that  remained.  Mr.  Oakhurst  was 
moody;  it  was  hinted  that  even  the  secure  reputation  of 
Mrs.  Decker  could  no  longer  protect  her  from  the  gossip 
which  his  presence  excited.  It  is  but  fair  to  her  to  say  that 
during  the  last  few  weeks  of  this  trying  ordeal  she  looked 
like  a  sweet,  pale  martyr,  and  conducted  herself  toward  her 
traducers  with  the  gentle,  forgiving  manner  of  one  who 
relied  not  upon  the  idle  homage  of  the  crowd,  but  upon 
the  security  of  a  principle  that  was  dearer  than  popular 
favour.  "They  talk  about  myself  and  Mr.  Oakhurst,  my 
dear,"  she  said  to  a  friend,  "  but  Heaven  and  my  husband 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  131 

can  best  answer  tHeir  calumny.  It  never  shall  be  said  that 
my  husband  ever  turned  his  back  upon  a  friend  in  the 
moment  of  his  adversity  because  the  position  was  changed, 
because  his  friend  was  poor  and  he  was  rich."  This 
was  the  first  intimation  to  the  public  that  Jack  had 
lost  money,  although  it  was  known  generally  that  the 
Deckers  had  lately  bpught  some  valuable  property  in  San 
Francisco. 

A  few  evenings  after  this  an  incident  occurred  which 
seemed  to  unpleasantly  discord  with  the  general  social 
harmony  that  had  always  existed  at  San  Isabel.  It  was 
at  dinner,  and  Mr.  Oakhurst  and  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  sat 
together  at  a  separate  table,  *vere  observed  to  rise  in  some 
agitation.  When  they  reached  the  hall,  by  a  common 
instinct  they  stepped  into  a  little  breakfast-room  which  was 
vacant  and  closed  the  door.  Then  Mr.  Hamilton  turned, 
with  a  half-amused,  half-serious  smile,  toward  his  friend, 
and  said — 

"  If  we  are  to  quarrel,  Jack  Oakhurst — you  and  I — in 
the  name  of  all  that  is  ridiculous,  don't  let  it  be  about 
a !" 

I  do  not  know  what  was  the  epithet  intended.  It  was 
either  unspoken  or  lost.  For  at  that  very  instant  Mr. 
Oakhurst  raised  a  wine-glass  and  dashed  its  contents  into 
Hamilton's  face. 

As  they  faced  each  other  the  men  seemed  to  have 
changed  natures.  Mr.  Oakhurst  was  trembling  with  excite- 
ment, and  the  wine-glass  that  he  returned  to  the  table 
shivered  between  his  fingers.  Mr.  Hamilton  stood  there, 
grayish-white,  erect,  and  dripping.  After  a  pause  he  said 
coldly — 

"So  be  it.  But  remember !  our  quarrel  commences 
here.  If  I  fall  by  your  hand,  you  shall  not  use  it  to  clear 
her  character ;  if  you  fall  by  mine,  you  shall  not  be  called 


132  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

a  martyr.  I  am  sorry  it  has  come  to  this,  but  amen  ! — the 
sooner  now  the  better." 

He  turned  proudly,  dropped  his  lids  over  his  cold  steel- 
blue  eyes,  as  if  sheathing  a  rapier,  bowed,  and  passed  coldly 
out. 

They  met  twelve  hours  later  in  a  little  hollow  two  miles 
from  the  hotel,  on  the  Stockton  road.  As  Mr.  Oakhurst 
received  his  pistol  from  Colonel  Starbottle's  hands  he  said 
to  him  in  a  low  voice,  "  Whatever  turns  up  or  down  I  shall 
not  return  to  the  hotel.  You  will  find  some  directions  in 

my  room.     Go  there  " but  his  voice  suddenly  faltered, 

and  he  turned  his  glistening  eyes  away,  to  his  second's 
intense  astonishment.  "  I've  been  out  a  dozen  times  with 
Jack  Oakhurst,"  said  Colonel  Starbottle  afterwards,  "  and  I 
never  saw  him  anyways  cut  before.  Blank  me  if  I  didn't 
think  he  was  losing  his  sand,  till  he  walked  to  position." 

The  two  reports  were  almost  simultaneous.  Mr.  Oak- 
hurst's  right  arm  dropped  suddenly  to  his  side,  and  his  pistol 
would  have  fallen  from  his  paralysed  fingers,  but  the  dis- 
cipline of  trained  nerve  and  muscle  prevailed,  and  he  kept 
his  grasp  until  he  had  shifted  it  to  the  other  hand,  without 
changing  his  position.  Then  there  was  a  silence  that  seemed 
interminable,  a  gathering  of  two  or  three  dark  figures  where 
a  smoke  curl  still  lazily  floated,  and  then  the  hurried,  husky, 
panting  voice  of  Colonel  Starbottle  in  his  ear,  "  He's  hit 
hard — through  the  lungs — you  must  run  for  it ! " 

Jack  turned  his  dark,  questioning  eyes  upon  his  second, 
but  did  not  seem  to  listen,  rather  seemed  to  hear  some 
other  voice,  remoter  in  the  distance.  He  hesitated,  and 
then  made  a  step  forward  in  the  direction  of  the  distant 
group.  Then  he  paused  again  as  the  figures  separated,  and 
the  surgeon  came  hastily  toward  him. 

"  He  would  like  to  speak  with  you  a  moment,"  said 
the  man.  "  You  have  little  time  to  lose,  I  know ;  but,"  he 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  133 

added  in  a  lower  voice,  "  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  you  he  has 
still  less." 

A  look  of  despair,  so  hopeless  in  its  intensity,  swept  over  Mr. 
Oakhurst's  usually  impassive  face,  that  the  surgeon  started. 
"  You  are  hit,"  he  said,  glancing  at  Jack's  helpless  arm. 

"  Nothing — a  mere  scratch,"  said  Jack  hastily.  Then  he 
added,  with  a  bitter  laugh,  "  I'm  not  in  luck  to-day.  But 
come  !  We'll  see  what  he  wants." 

His  long,  feverish  stride  outstripped  the  surgeon's,  and  in 
another  moment  he  stood  where  the  dying  man  lay — like 
most  dying  men — the  one  calm,  composed,  central  figure  of 
an  anxious  group.  Mr.  Oakhurst's  face  was  less  calm  as  he 
dropped  on  one  knee  beside  him  and  took  his  hand.  "  I 
want  to  speak  with  this  gentleman  alone,"  said  Hamilton, 
with  something  of  his  old  imperious  manner,  as  he  turned 
to  those  about  him.  When  they  drew  back,  he  looked  up 
in  Oakhurst's  face. 

"  I've  something  to  tell  you,  Jack." 

His  own  face  was  white,  but  not  so  white  as  that  which 
Mr.  Oakhurst  bent  over  him — a  face  so  ghastly,  with  haunt- 
ing doubts  and  a  hopeless  presentiment  of  coming  evil — a 
face  so  piteous  in  its  infinite  weariness  and  envy  of  death, 
that  the  dying  man  was  touched,  even  in  the  languor  of 
dissolution,  with  a  pang  of  compassion,  and  the  cynical 
smile  faded  from  his  lips. 

"  Forgive  me,  Jack,"  he  whispered  more  feebly,  "  for 
what  I  have  to  say.  I  don't  say  it  in  anger,  but  only 
because  it  must  be  said.  I  could  not  do  my  duty  to  you — 
I  could  not  die  contented  until  you  knew  it  all.  It's  a 
miserable  business  at  best,  all  around.  But  it  can't  be 
helped  now.  Only  I  ought  to  have  fallen  by  Decker's 
pistol  and  not  yours." 

A  flush  like  fire  came  into  Jack's  cheek,  and  he  would 
have  risen,  but  Hamilton  held  him  fast. 


134  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

"  Listen  !  in  my  pocket  you  will  find  two  letters.  Take 
them — there  !  You  will  know  the  handwriting.  But  pro- 
mise you  will  not  read  them  until  you  are  in  a  place  of 
safety.  Promise  me  ! " 

Jack  did  not  speak,  but  held  the  letters  between  his 
fingers  as  if  they  had  been  burning  coals. 

"  Promise  me,"  said  Hamilton  faintly. 

"Why?"  asked  Oakhurst,  dropping  his  friend's  hand  coldly. 

"  Because,"  said  the  dying  man  with  a  bitter  smile — 
"  because — when  you  have  read  them — you — will — go 
back — to  capture — and  death  ! " 

They  were  his  last  words.  He  pressed  Jack's  hand 
faintly.  Then  his  grasp  relaxed,  and  he  fell  back  a  corpse. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  Mrs.  Decker 
reclined  languidly  upon  the  sofa  with  a  novel  in  her  hand, 
while  her  husband  discussed  the  politics  of  the  country  in 
the  bar-room  of  the  hotel  It  was  a  warm  night,  and  the 
French  window  looking  out  upon  a  little  balcony  was  partly 
open.  Suddenly  she  heard  a  foot  upon  the  balcony,  and 
she  raised  her  eyes  from  the  book  with  a  slight  start.  The 
next  moment  the  window  was  hurriedly  thrust  wide  and  a 
man  entered. 

Mrs.  Decker  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  little  cry  of  alarm. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  Jack,  are  you  mad  ?  He  has  only 
gone  for  a  little  while — he  may  return  at  any  moment. 
Come  an  hour  later — to-morrow — any  time  when  I  can  get 
rid  of  him — but  go,  now,  dear,  at  once." 

Mr.  Oakhurst  walked  toward  the  door,  bolted  it,  and 
then  faced  her  without  a  word.  His  face  was  haggard,  his 
coat-sleeve  hung  loosely  over  an  arm  that  was  bandaged 
and  bloody. 

Nevertheless,  her  voice  did  not  falter  as  she  turned  again 
toward  him.  "  What  has  happened,  Jack  ?  Why  are  you 
here?" 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  135 

He  opened  his  coat,  and  threw  two  letters  in  her  lap. 

"To  return  your  lover's  letters — to  kill  you — and  then 
myself,"  he  said  in  a  voice  so  low  as  to  be  almost 
inaudible. 

Among  the  many  virtues  of  this  admirable  woman  was 
invincible  courage.  She  did  not  faint,  she  did  not  cry  out. 
She  sat  quietly  down  again,  folded  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
and  said  calmly — 

"  x\nd  why  should  you  not?" 

Had  she  recoiled,  had  she  shown  any  fear  or  contrition, 
had  she  essayed  an  explanation  or  apology,  Mr.  Oakhurst 
would  have  looked  upon  it  as  an  evidence  of  guilt.  But 
there  is  no  quality  that  courage  recognises  so  quickly  as 
courage  ;  there  is  no  condition  that  desperation  bows  before 
but  desperation  ;  and  Mr.  Oakhurst's  power  of  analysis  was 
not  so  keen  as  to  prevent  him  from  confounding  her 
courage  with  a  moral  quality.  Even  in  his  fury  he  could 
not  help  admiring  this  dauntless  invalid. 

"  Why  should  you  not  ?  "  she  repeated  with  a  smile.  "You 
gave  me  life,  health,  and  happiness,  Jack.  You  gave  me 
your  love.  Why  should  you  not  take  what  you  have  given. 
Go  on.  I  am  ready." 

She  held  dut  her  hands  with  that  same  infinite  grace  of 
yielding  with  which  she  had  taken  his  own  on  the  first  day 
of  their  meeting  at  the  hotel.  Jack  raised  his  head,  looked 
at  her  for  one  wild  moment,  dropped  upon  his  knees  beside 
her,  and  raised  the  folds  of  her  dress  to  his  feverish  lips. 
But  she  was  too  clever  not  to  instantly  see  her  victory ;  she 
was  too  much  of  a  woman,  with  all  her  cleverness,  to  refrain 
from  pressing  that  victory  home.  At  the  same  moment,  as 
with  the  impulse  of  an  outraged  and  wounded  woman,  she 
rose  and,  with  an  imperious  gesture,  pointed  to  the  window. 
Mr.  Oakhurst  rose  in  his  turn,  cast  one  glance  upon  her,  and 
without  another  word  passed  out  of  her  presence  for  ever. 


136  A  Passage  in  the  Life 

When  he  had  gone,  she  closed  the  window  and  bolted 
it,  and  going  to  the  chimneypiece  placed  the  letters,  one 
by  one,  in  the  flame  of  the  candle  until  they  were  consumed. 
I  would  not  have  the  reader  think  that  during  this  painful 
operation  she  was  unmoved.  Her  hand  trembled  and — 
not  being  a  brute — for  some  minutes  (perhaps  longer)  she 
felt  very  badly,  and  the  corners  of  her  sensitive  mouth  were 
depressed.  When  her  husband  arrived  it  was  with  a 
genuine  joy  that  she  ran  to  him,  and  nestled  against  his 
broad  breast  with  a  feeling  of  security  that  thrilled  the 
honest  fellow  to  the  core. 

"  But  I've  heard  dreadful  news  to-night,  Elsie,"  said 
Mr.  Decker,  after  a  few  endearments  were  exchanged. 

"Don't  tell  me  anything  dreadful,  dear;  I'm  not  well 
to-night,"  she  pleaded  sweetly. 

"  But  it's  about  Mr.  Oakhurst  and  Hamilton." 

"Please!"  Mr.  Decker  could  not  resist  the  petitionary 
grace  of  those  white  hands  and  that  sensitive  mouth,  and 
took  her  to  his  arms.  Suddenly  he  said,  "What's  that  ?" 

He  was  pointing  to  the  bosom  of  her  white  dress. 
Where  Mr.  Oakhurst  had  touched  her  there  was  a  spot 
of  blood. 

It  was  nothing ;  she  had  slightly  cut  her  ha'nd  in  closing 
the  window  ;  it  shut  so  hard  !  If  Mr.  Decker  had  remem- 
bered to  close  and  bolt  the  shutter  before  he  went  out,  he 
might  have  saved  her  this.  There  was  such  a  genuine 
irritability  and  force  in  this  remark  that  Mr.  Decker  was 
quite  overcome  by  remorse.  But  Mrs.  Decker  forgave  him 
with  that  graciousness  which  I  have  before  pointed  out  in 
these  pages,  and  with  the  halo  of  that  forgiveness  and 
marital  confidence  still  lingering  above  the  pair,  with  the 
reader's  permission,  we  will  leave  them  and  return  to  Mr. 
Oakhurst. 

But  not  for  two  weeks.     At  the  end  of  that  time  he 


of  Mr.  John  Oakhurst.  137 

walked  into  his  rooms  in  Sacramento,  and  in  his  old  manner 
took  his  seat  at  the  faro-table. 

"  How's  your  arm,  Jack  ?  "  asked  an  incautious  player. 

There  was  a  smile  followed  the  question,  which,  however, 
ceased  as  Jack  looked  up  quietly  at  the  speaker. 

"  It  bothers  my  dealing  a  little,  but  I  can  shoot  as  well 
with  my  left." 

The  game  was  continued  in  that  decorous  silence  which 
usually  distinguished  the  table  at  which  Mr.  John  Oakhurst 
presided. 


(     138     ) 


Cfie  IRose  of  Cuolumne, 

CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  lights  were 
out  in  Robinson's  Hall,  where  there  had  been  dancing  and 
revelry,  and  the  moon,  riding  high,  painted  the  black  win- 
dows with  silver.  The  cavalcade  that  an  hour  ago  had 
shocked  the  sedate  pines  with  song  and  laughter,  were  all 
dispersed ;  one  enamoured  swain  had  ridden  east,  another 
west,  another  north,  another  south,  and  the  object  of  their 
adoration,  left  within  her  bower  at  Chemisal  Ridge,  was 
calmly  going  to  bed. 

I  regret  that  I  am  not  able  to  indicate  the  exact  stage  of 
that  process.  Two  chairs  were  already  filled  with  delicate 
enwrappings  and  white  confusion,  and  the  young  lady  her- 
self, half  hidden  in  the  silky  threads  of  her  yellow  hair,  had 
at  one  time  borne  a  faint  resemblance  to  a  partly-hueked 
ear  of  Indian  corn.  But  she  was  now  clothed  in  that  one 
long,  formless  garment  that  makes  all  women  equal,  and 
the  round  shoulders  and  neat  waist  that  an  hour  ago  had 
been  so  fatal  to  the  peace  of  mind  of  Four  Forks  had  utterly 
disappeared.  The  face  above  it  was  very  pretty ;  the  foot 
below,  albeit  shapely,  was  not  small.  "The  flowers,  as  a 
general  thing,  don't  raise  their  heads  much  to  look  after 
me,"  she  had  said  with  superb  frankness  to  one  of  her 
lovers. 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  1 39 

The  expression  of  "  The  Rose  "  to-night  was  contentedly 
placid.  She  walked  slowly  to  the  window,  and,  making  the 
smallest  possible  peep-hole  through  the  curtain,  looked  out 
The  motionless  figure  of  a  horseman  still  lingered  on  the 
road,  with  an  excess  of  devotion  that  only  a  coquette  or  a 
woman  very  much  in  love  could  tolerate.  "  The  Rose  "  at 
that  moment  was  neither,  and  after  a  reasonable  pause 
turned  away,  saying,  quite  audibly,  that  it  was  "  too  ridicu- 
lous for  anything."  As  she  came  back  to  her  dressing-table 
it  was  noticeable  that  she  walked  steadily  and  erect,  without 
that  slight  affectation  of  lameness  common  to  people  with 
whom  bare  feet  are  only  an  episode.  Indeed,  it  was  only 
four  years  ago  that,  without  shoes  or  stockings,  a  long- 
limbed,  colty  girl,  in  a  waistless  calico  gown,  she  had  leaped 
from  the  tail-board  of  her  father's  emigrant  waggon  when 
it  first  drew  up  at  Chemisal  Ridge.  Certain  wild  habits 
of  the  Rose  had  outlived  transplanting  and  cultivation. 

A  knock  at  the  door  surprised  her.  In  another  moment 
she  had  leaped  into  bed,  and,  with  darkly-frowning  eyes, 
from  its  secure  recesses  demanded  "  Who's  there  ?  " 

An  apologetic  murmur  on  the  other  side  of  the  door  was 
the  response. 

"  Why,  father,  is  that  you  ?  " 

There  were  further  murmurs,  affirmative,  deprecatory,  and 
persistent. 

"  Wait,"  said  the  Rose.  She  got  up,  unlocked  the  door, 
leaped  nimbly  into  bed  again,  and  said,  "  Come." 

The  door  opened  timidly.  The  broad,  stooping  shoulders 
and  grizzled  head  of  a  man  past  the  middle  age  appeared  ; 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  a  pair  of  large,  diffident  feet, 
shod  with  canvas  slippers,  concluded  to  follow.  When  the 
apparition  was  complete  it  closed  the  door  softly,  and  stood 
there — a  very  shy  ghost  indeed,  with  apparently  more  than 
the  usual  spiritual  indisposition  to  begin  a  conversation. 


140  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

The  Rose  resented  this  impatiently,  though  I  fear  not  alto- 
gether intelligibly — 

"  Do,  father,  I  declare  ! " 

"You  was  abed,  Jinny,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky  slowly,  glanc- 
ing with  a  singular  mixture  of  masculine  awe  and  paternal 
pride  upon  the  two  chairs  and  their  contents.  "  You  was 
a-bed  and  ondressed." 

"I  was." 

"Surely,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  seating  himself  on  the  ex- 
treme edge  of  the  bed,  and  painfully  tucking  his  feet  away 
under  it,  "surely."  After  a  pause  he  rubbed  a  short,  thick, 
stumpy  beard,  that  bore  a  general  resemblance  to  a  badly- 
worn  blacking-brush,  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and  went 
on,  "  You  had  a  good  time,  Jinny  ?  " 

"Yes,  father." 

"They  was  all  there?" 

"  Yes,  Ranee  and  York  and  Ryder  and  Jack." 

"And  Jack!"  Mr.  M'Closky  endeavoured  to  throw  an 
expression  of  arch  inquiry  into  his  small,  tremulous  eyes,  but 
meeting  the  unabashed,  widely-opened  lid  of  his  daughter, 
he  winked  rapidly  and  blushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Yes,  Jack  was  there,"  said  Jinny,  without  change  of 
colour,  or  the  least  self-consciousness  in  her  great  gray  eyes, 
"and  he  came  home  with  me."  She  paused  a  moment, 
locking  her  two  hands  under  her  head,  and  assuming  a 
more  comfortable  position  on  the  pillow.  "  He  asked  me 
that  same  question  again,  father,  and  I  said  *  Yes.'  It's  to 
be — soon.  We're  going  to  live  at  Four  Forks,  in  his  own 
house,  and  next  winter  we're  going  to  Sacramento.  I  sup- 
pose it's  all  right,  father,  eh  ?  "  She  emphasised  the  question 
with  a  slight  kick  through  the  bed-clothes  as  the  parental 
M'Closky  had  fallen  into  an  abstract  reverie. 

"Yes,  surely,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  recovering  himself 
with  some  confusion.  After  a  pause  he  looked  down  at  the 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  141 

bed-clothes,  and,  patting  them  tenderly,  continued.  "You 
couldn't  have  done  better,  Jinny.  They  isn't  a  girl  in  Tuo- 
lumne  ez  could  strike  it  ez  rich  ez  you  hev — even  if  they  got 
the  chance."  He  paused  again  and  then  said,  "  Jinny? " 

"Yes,  father." 

"  You'se  in  bed  and  ondressed  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You  couldn't,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  glancing  hopelessly 
at  the  two  chairs  and  slowly  rubbing  his  chin — "you 
couldn't  dress  yourself  again,  could  yer  ?  " 

"Why,  father?" 

"  Kinder  get  yourself  into  them  things  again  ?  "  he  added 
hastily.  "  Not  all  of  'em,  you  know,  but  some  of  'em.  Not 
if  I  helped  you  ? — sorter  stood  by  and  lent  a  hand  now  and 
then  with  a  strap  or  a  buckle,  or  a  necktie  or  a  shoe-string," 
he  continued,  still  looking  at  the  chairs,  and  evidently  trying 
to  boldly  familiarise  himself  with  their  contents. 

"Are  you  crazy,  father?"  demanded  Jinny,  suddenly 
sitting  up  with  a  portentous  switch  of  her  yellow  mane. 
Mr.  M'Closky  rubbed  one  side  of  his  beard,  which  already 
had  the  appearance  of  having  been  quite  worn  away  by  that 
process,  and  faintly  dodged  the  question. 

"  Jinny,"  he  said,  tenderly  stroking  the  bed-clothes  as  he 
spoke,  "this  yer's  what's  the  matter.  Thar  is  a  stranger 
downstairs — a  stranger  to  you,  lovey,  but  a  man  ez  I've 
knowed  a  long  time.  He's  been  here  about  an  hour,  and 
he'll  be  here  ontil  fewer  o'clock,  when  the  up  stage  passes. 
Now  I  wants  ye,  Jinny,  dear,  to  get  up  and  come  downstairs 
and  kinder  help  me  pass  the  time  with  him.  It's  no  use, 
Jinny,''  he  went  on,  gently  raising  his  hand  to  deprecate  any 
interruption — "  it's  no  use,  he  won't  go  to  bed  !  He  won't 
play  keerds ;  whisky  don't  take  no  effect  on  him.  Ever 
since  I  knowed  him  he  was  the  most  onsatisfactory  critter 
to  hev  round  " 


142  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

"What  do  you  have  him  round  for,  then?"  interrupted 
Miss  Jinny  sharply. 

Mr.  M'Closky's  eyes  fell.  "  Ef  he  hedn't  kem  out  of  his 
way  to-night  to  do  me  a  good  turn,  I  wouldn't  ask  ye,  Jinny. 
I  wouldn't,  so  help  me !  But  I  thought  ez  I  couldn't  do 
anything  with  him,  you  might  come  down  and  sorter  fetch 
him,  Jinny,  as  you  did  the  others." 

Miss  Jinny  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders. 

"  Is  he  old  or  young  ?  " 

"  He's  young  enough,  Jinny,  but  he  knows  a  power  of 
things." 

"What  does  he  do?" 

"  Not  much,  I  reckon.  He's  got  money  in  the  mill  at 
Four  Forks.  He  travels  round  a  good  deal.  I've  heard, 
Jinny,  that  he's  a  poet — writes  them  rhymes,  you  know." 
Mr.  M'Closky  here  appealed  submissively,  but  directly,  to 
his  daughter.  He  remembered  that  she  had  frequently  been 
in  receipt  of  printed  elegiac  couplets  known  as  "  mottoes," 
containing  enclosures  equally  saccharine. 

Miss  Jenny  slightly  curled  her  pretty  lip.  She  had  that 
fine  contempt  for  the  illusions  of  fancy  which  belongs  to  the 
perfectly  healthy  young  animal. 

"Not,"  continued  Mr.  M'Closky,  rubbing  his  head  re- 
flectively, "  not  ez  I'd  advise  ye,  Jinny,  to  say  anything  to 
him  about  poetry.  It  ain't  twenty  minutes  ago  ez  /  did. 
I  set  the  whisky  afore  him  in  the  parlour.  I  wound  up  the 
music-box  and  set  it  goin'.  Then  I  sez  to  him,  sociable-like 
and  free, '  Jest  consider  yourself  in  your  own  house  and  repeat 
what  you  allow  to  be  your  finest  production/  and  he  raged. 
That  man,  Jinny,  jest  raged.  Thar's  no  end  of  the  names 
he  called  me.  You  see,  Jinny,"  continued  Mr.  M'Closky 
apologetically,  "he's  known  me  a  long  time." 

But  his  daughter  had  already  dismissed  the  question  with 
her  usual  directness.  "I'll  be  down  in  a  few  moments, 


The  Rose  of  Tuohimne.  143 

father/'  she  said  after  a  pause,  "  but  don't  say  anything  to 
him  about  it — don't  say  I  was  abed." 

Mr.  M'Closky's  face  beamed.  "  You  was  allers  a  good 
girl,  Jinny,"  he  said,  dropping  on  one  knee  the  better  to 
imprint  a  respectful  kiss  on  her  forehead.  But  Jinny  caught 
him  by  the  wrists  and  for  a  moment  held  him  captive. 
"  Father,"  said  she,  trying  to  fix  his  shy  eyes  with  the  clear, 
steady  glance  of  her  own,  "  all  the  girls  that  were  there  to- 
night had  some  one  with  them.  Mame  Robinson  had  her 
aunt,  Lucy  Ranee  had  her  mother,  Kate  Pierson  had  her 
sister — all  except  me  had  some  other  woman.  Father,  dear," 
her  lip  trembled  just  a  little,  (<  I  wish  mother  hadn't  died 
when  I  was  so  small.  I  wish  there  was  some  other  woman 
in  the  family  besides  me.  I  ain't  lonely  with  you,  father, 
dear ;  but  if  there  was  only  some  one,  you  know,  when  the 
time  comes  for  John  and  me  " 

Her  voice  here  suddenly  gave  out,  but  not  her  brave  eyes, 
that  were  still  fixed  earnestly  upon  his  face.  Mr.  M'Closky, 
apparently  tracing  out  a  pattern  on  the  bed-quilt,  essayed 
words  of  comfort. 

"  There  ain't  one  of  them  gals  ez  you've  named,  Jinny, 
ez  could  do  what  you've  done  with  a  whole  Noah's  ark  of 
relations  at  their  backs  !  Thar  ain't  one  ez  wouldn't  sacrifice 
her  nearest  relation  to  make  the  strike  that  you  hev.  Ez  to 
mothers,  maybe,  my  dear,  you're  doin'  better  without  one." 
He  rose  suddenly,  and  walked  toward  the  door.  When  he 
reached  it  he  turned,  and,  in  his  old  deprecating  manner, 
said,  "  Don't  be  long,  Jinny,"  smiled,  and  vanished  from 
the  head  downward,  his  canvas  slippers  asserting  themselves 
resolutely  to  the  last. 

When  Mr.  M'Closky  reached  his  parlour  again  his  trouble- 
some guest  was  not  there.  The  decanter  stood  on  the  table 
untouched,  three  or  four  books  lay  upon  the  floor,  a  number 
of  photographic  views  of  the  Sierras  were  scattered  over 


144  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

the  sofa ;  two  sofa  pillows,  a  newspaper,  and  a  Mexican 
blanket  lay  on  the  carpet,  as  if  the  late  occupant  of  the  room 
had  tried  to  read  in  a  recumbent  position.  A  French 
window,  opening  upon  a  veranda,  which  never  before  in  the 
history  of  the  house  had  been  unfastened,  now  betrayed  by 
its  waving  lace  curtain  the  way  that  the  fugitive  had  escaped. 
Mr.  M'Closky  heaved  a  sigh  of  despair ;  he  looked  at  the 
gorgeous  carpet  purchased  in  Sacramento  at  a  fabulous 
price,  at  the  crimson  satin  and  rosewood  furniture  unparal- 
leled in  the  history  of  Tuolumne,  at  the  massively-framed 
pictures  on  the  walls,  and  looked  beyond  it,  through  the 
open  window,  to  the  reckless  man  who,  fleeing  these  sybaritic 
allurements,  was  smoking  a  cigar  upon  the  moonlit  road. 
This  room,  which  had  so  often  awed  the  youth  of  Tuolumne 
into  filial  respect,  was  evidently  a  failure.  It  remained  to 
be  seen  if  the  Rose  herself  had  lost  her  fragrance.  "  I 
reckon  Jinny  will  fetch  him  yet,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  with 
parental  faith. 

He  stepped  from  the  window  upon  the  veranda.  But  he 
had  scarcely  done  this  before  his  figure  was  detected  by 
the  stranger,  who  at  once  crossed  the  road.  When  within  a 
few  feet  of  M'Closky  he  stopped.  "You  persistent  old 
plantigrade,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  audible  only  to  the 
person  addressed,  and  a  face  full  of  affected  anxiety,  "  why 
don't  you  go  to  bed  ?  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  go  and  leave  me 
here  alone  ?  In  the  name  of  all  that's  idiotic  and  imbecile, 
why  do  you  continue  to  shuffle  about  here  ?  Or  are  you 
trying  to  drive  me  crazy  with  your  presence,  as  you  have 
with  that  wretched  music-box  that  I've  just  dropped  under 
yonder  tree  ?  It's  an  hour  and  a  half  yet  before  the  stage 
passes ;  do  you  think,  do  you  imagine  for  a  single  moment, 
that  I  can  tolerate  you  until  then — eh?  Why  don't  you 
speak  ?  Are  you  asleep  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  you 
have  the  audacity  to  add  somnambulism  to  your  other 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  145 

weaknesses ;  you're  not  low  enough  to  repeat  yourself  under 
any  such  weak  pretext  as  that — eh  ?  " 

A  fit  of  nervous  coughing  ended  this  extraordinary  exor- 
dium, and  half  sitting,  half  leaning  against  the  veranda, 
Mr.  M'Closky's  guest  turned  his  face,  and  part  of  a  slight, 
elegant  figure,  towards  his  host.  The  lower  portion  of  this 
upturned  face  wore  an  habitual  expression  of  fastidious  dis- 
content, with  an  occasional  line  of  physical  suffering.  But 
the  brow  above  was  fcank  and  critical,  and  a  pair  of  dark 
mirthful  eyes  sat  in  playful  judgment  over  the  supersensitive 
mouth  and  its  suggestion. 

"  I  allowed  to  go  to  bed,  Ridge  way,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky 
meekly,  "  but  my  girl  Jinny's  jist  got  back  from  a  little  tear 
up  at  Robinson's,  and  ain't  inclined  to  turn  in  yet.  You 
know  what  girls  is.  So  I  thought  we  three  would  jist  have 
a  social  chat  together  to  pass  away  the  time." 

"  You  mendacious  old  hypocrite  !  she  got  back  an  hour 
ago,"  said  Ridgeway,  "  as  that  savage-looking  escort  of  hers, 
who  has  been  haunting  the  house  ever  since,  can  testify. 
My  belief  is,  that,  like  an  enterprising  idiot  as  you  are, 
you've  dragged  that  girl  out  of  her  bed  that  we  might 
mutually  bore  each  other." 

Mr.  M'Closky  was  too  much  stunned  by  this  evidence  of 
Ridgeway's  apparently  superhuman  penetration  to  reply. 
After  enjoying  his  host's  confusion  for  a  moment  with  his 
eyes,  Ridgeway's  mouth  asked  grimly — 

"  And  who  is  this  girl,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Nancy's." 

"  Your  wife's  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  look  yar,  Ridgeway,"  said  M'Closky,  laying 
one  hand  imploringly  on  Ridgeway's  sleeve,  "  not  a  word 
about  her  to  Jinny.  She  thinks  her  mother's  dead — died  in 
Missouri.  Eh ! " 

Ridgeway  nearly  rolled  from  the  veranda  in  an  excess  ot 

VOL.  III.  K 


146  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

rage.  "  Good  God  !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have 
been  concealing  from  her  a  fact  that  any  day,  any  moment, 
may  come  to  her  ears  ?  That  you've  been  letting  her  grow 
up  in  ignorance  of  something  that  by  this  time  she  might 
have  outgrown  and  forgotten  ?  That  you  have  been,  like  a 
besotted  old  ass,  all  these  years  slowly  forging  a  thunder- 
bolt that  any  one  may  crush  her  with?  That" but 

here  Ridgeway's  cough  took  possession  of  his  voice,  and  even 
put  a  moisture  into  his  dark  eyes,  as  h^looked  at  M'Closky's 
aimless  hand  feebly  employed  upon  his  beard. 

"But,"  said  M'Closky,  "look  how  she's  done.  She's 
held  her  head  as  high  as  any  of  'em.  She's  to  be  married 
in  a  month  to  the  richest  man  in  the  county,  and,"  he  added 
cunningly,  "  Jack  Ashe  ain't  the  kind  o'  man  to  sit  by  and 
hear  anything  said  of  his  wife  or  her  relations,  you  bet. 
But  hush — that's  her  foot  on  the  stairs.  She's  cummin'." 

She  came.  I  don't  think  the  French  window  ever  held  a 
finer  view  than  when  she  put  aside  the  curtains  and  stepped 
out.  She  had  dressed  herself  simply  and  hurriedly,  but  with 
a  woman's  knowledge  of  her  best  points,  so  that  you  get 
the  long  curves  of  her  shapely  limbs,  the  shorter  curves 
of  her  round  waist  and  shoulders,  the  long  sweep  of 
her  yellow  braids,  the  light  of  her  gray  eyes,  and  even  the 
delicate  rose  of  her  complexion,  without  knowing  how 
it  was  delivered  to  you. 

The  introduction  by  Mr.  M'Closky  was  brief.  When 
Ridgeway  had  got  over  the  fact  that  it  was  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  that  the  cheek  of  this  Tuolumne  goddess 
nearest  him  was  as  dewy  and  fresh  as  an  infant's — that  she 
looked  like  Marguerite,  without  probably  ever  having  heard 
of  Goethe's  heroine,  he  talked,  I  daresay,  very  sensibly. 
When  Miss  Jinny,  who  from  her  childhood  had  been  brought 
up  among  the  sons  of  Anak,  and  who  was  accustomed 
to  have  the  supremacy  of  our  noble  sex  presented  to  her 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  147 

as  a  physical  fact,  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  a  new 
and  strange  power  in  the  slight  and  elegant  figure  beside 
her,  she  was  at  first  frightened  and  cold.  But  finding  that 
this  power,  against  which  the  weapons  of  her  own  physical 
charms  were  of  no  avail,  was  a  kindly  one,  albeit  general, 
she  fell  to  worshipping  it,  after  the  fashion  of  woman,  and 
casting  before  it  the  fetiches  and  other  idols  of  her  youth. 
She  even  confessed  to  it.  So  that  in  half  an  hour  Ridge- 
way  was  in  possession  of  all  the  facts  connected  with  her 
life,  and  a  great  many,  I  fear,  of  her  fancies — except  one. 
When  Mr.  M'Closky  found  the  young  people  thus  amicably 
disposed,  he  calmly  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  a  pleasant  time  to  each.  To  Miss  Jinny  it  had 
the  charm  of  novelty,  and  she  abandoned  herself  to  it  for 
that  reason  much  more  freely  and  innocently  than  her  com- 
panion, who  knew  something  more  of  the  inevitable  logic 
of  the  position.  I  do  not  think,  however,  he  had  any 
intention  of  love-making.  I  do  not  think  he  was  at  all 
conscious  of  being  in  the  attitude.  I  am  quite  positive 
he  would  have  shrunk  from  the  suggestion  of  disloyalty 
to  the  one  woman  whom  he  admitted  to  himself  he 
loved.  But,  like  most  poets,  he  was  much  more  true  to  an 
idea  than  a  fact,  and,  having  a  very  lofty  conception  of 
womanhood,  with  a  very  sanguine  nature,  he  saw  in  each  new 
face  the  possibilities  of  a  realisation  of  his  ideal.  It  was, 
perhaps,  an  unfortunate  thing  for  the  women,  particularly 
as  he  brought  to  each  trial  a  surprising  freshness  which  was 
very  deceptive,  and  quite  distinct  from  the  blase  familiarity 
of  the  man  of  gallantry.  It  was  this  perennial  virginity  of 
the  affections  that  most  endeared  him  to  the  best  women, 
who  were  prone  to  exercise  towards  him  a  chivalrous  pro- 
tection— as  of  one  likely  to  go  astray  unless  looked  after — 
and  indulged  in  the  dangerous  combination  of  sentiment 
with  the  highest  maternal  instincts.  It  was  this  quality 


148  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

which  caused  Jinny  to  recognise  in  him  a  certain  boyishness 
that  required  her  womanly  care,  and  even  induced  her  to 
offer  to  accompany  him  to  the  cross-roads  when  the  time 
of  his  departure  arrived.  With  her  superior  knowledge  of 
woodcraft  and  the  locality,  she  would  have  kept  him  from 
being  lost.  I  wot  not  but  that  she  would  have  protected 
him  from  bears  or  wolves,  but  chiefly,  I  think,  from  the 
feline  fascinations  of  Mame  Robinson  and  Lucy  Ranee, 
who  might  be  lying  in  wait  for  this  tender  young  poet.  Nor 
did  she  cease  to  be  thankful  that  Providence  had,  so  to 
speak,  delivered  him  as  a  trust  into  her  hands. 

It  was  a  lovely  night  The  moon  swung  low  and 
languished  softly  on  the  snowy  ridge  beyond.  There  were 
quaint  odours  in  the  still  air,  and  a  strange  incense  from  the 
woods  perfumed  their  young  blood  and  seemed  to  swoon 
in  their  pulses.  Small  wonder  that  they  lingered  on  the 
white  road,  that  their  feet  climbed  unwillingly  the  little  hill 
where  they  were  to  part,  and  that  when  they  at  last  reached 
it,  even  the  saving  grace  of  speech  seemed  to  have  forsaken 
them. 

For  there  they  stood,  alone.  There  was  no  sound  nor 
motion  in  earth,  or  woods,  or  heaven.  They  might  have 
been  the  one  man  and  woman  for  whom  this  goodly  earth 
that  lay  at  their  feet,  rimmed  with  the  deepest  azure,  was 
created.  And  seeing  this,  they  turned  towards  each  other 
with  a  sudden  instinct,  and  their  hands  met,  and  then  their 
lips  in  one  long  kiss. 

And  then  out  of  the  mysterious  distance  came  the  sound 
of  voices  and  the  sharp  clatter  of  hoofs  and  wheels,  and 
Jinny  slid  away — a  white  moonbeam — from  the  hill.  For 
a  moment  she  glimmered  through  the  trees,  and  then, 
reaching  the  house,  passed  her  sleeping  father  on  the 
veranda,  and,  darting  into  her  bedroom,  locked  the  door, 
threw  open  the  window,  and,  falling  on  her  knees  beside  it, 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  149 

leaned  her  hot  cheeks  upon  her  hands  and  listened.  In  a 
few  moments  she  was  rewarded  by  the  sharp  clatter  of  hoofs 
on  the  stony  road,  but  it  was  only  a  horseman,  whose  dark 
figure  was  swiftly  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  lower  road. 
At  another  time  she  might  have  recognised  the  man,  but 
her  eyes  and  ears  were  now  all  intent  on  something  else. 
It  came  presently,  with  dancing  lights,  a  musical  rattle  of 
harness,  a  cadence  of  hoof-beats,  that  set  her  heart  to 
beating  in  unison,  and  was  gone.  A  sudden  sense  of 
loneliness  came  over  her,  and  tears  gathered  in  her 
sweet  eyes. 

She  arose  and  looked  around  her.  There  was  the  little 
bed,  the  dressing-table,  the  roses  that  she  had  worn  last 
night,  still  fresh  and  blooming  in  the  little  vase.  Every- 
thing was  there,  but  everything  looked  strange ;  the  roses 
should  have  been  withered,  for  the  party  seemed  so  long 
ago ;  she  could  hardly  remember  when  she  had  worn  this 
dress  that  lay  upon  the  chair.  So  she  came  back  to  the 
window  and  sank  down  beside  it,  with  her  cheek,  a  trifle 
paler,  leaning  on  her  hand,  and  her  long  braids  reaching  to 
the  floor.  The  stars  paled  slowly,  like  her  cheek,  yet  with 
eyes  that  saw  not  she  still  looked  from  her  window  for  the 
coming  dawn. 

It  came,  with  violet  deepening  into  purple,  with  purple 
flushing  into  rose,  with  rose  shining  into  silver  and  glowing 
into  gold.  The  straggling  line  of  black  picket-fence  below, 
that  had  faded  away  with  the  stars,  came  back  with  the  sun. 
What  was  that  object  moving  by  the  fence  ?  Jinny  raised 
her  head  and  looked  intently.  It  was  a  man  endeavouring 
to  climb  the  pickets,  and  falling  backward  with  each  attempt. 
Suddenly  she  started  to  her  feet,  as  if  the  rosy  flushes  of  the 
dawn  had  crimsoned  her  from  forehead  to  shoulders ;  then 
she  stood,  white  as  the  wall,  with  her  hands  clasped  upon 
her  bosom.  Then,  with  a  single  bound  she  reached  the 


1 50  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

door,  and,  with  flying  braids  and  fluttering  skirt,  sprang 
down  the  stairs  and  out  in  the  garden  walk.  When  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  fence  she  uttered  a  cry — the  first  she  had 
given — the  cry  of  a  mother  over  her  stricken  babe,  of  a 
tigress  over  her  mangled  cub,  and  in  another  moment  she 
had  leaped  the  fence  and  knelt  beside  Ridgeway,  with  his 
fainting  head  upon  her  breast. 

"  My  boy — my  poor,  poor  boy  !  who  has  done  this  ?  " 

Who,  indeed  ?  His  clothes  were  covered  with  dust,  his 
waistcoat  was  torn  open;  and  his  handkerchief,  wet  with 
the  blood  it  could  not  stanch,  fell  from  a  cruel  stab  beneath 
his  shoulder. 

"  Ridgeway  ! — my  poor  boy — tell  me  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

Ridgeway  slowly  opened  his  heavy,  blue-veined  lids 
and  gazed  upon  her.  Presently  a  gleam  of  mischief  came 
into  his  dark  eyes,  a  smile  stole  over  his  lips  as  he  whispered 
slowly — 

"  It — was — your  kiss — did  it — Jinny,  dear  !  I  had  for- 
gotten— how  high  priced — the  article  was  here.  Never 
mind,  Jinny  ! " — he  feebly  raised  her  hand  to  his  white 
lips — "  it  was — worth  it,"  and  fainted  away. 

Jinny  started  to  her  feet  and  looked  wildly  around  her. 
Then,  with  a  sudden  resolution,  she  stooped  over  the  insen- 
sible man,  and,  with  one  strong  effort,  lifted  him  in  her  arms 
as  if  he  had  been  a  child.  When  her  father,  a  moment 
later,  rubbed  his  eyes  and  awoke  from  his  sleep  upon  the 
veranda,  it  was  to  see  a  goddess,  erect  and  triumphant, 
striding  toward  the  house,  with  the  helpless  body  of  a  man 
lying  across  that  breast  where  man  had  never  lain  before — 
a  goddess  at  whose  imperious  mandate  he  arose  and  cast 
open  the  doors  before  her.  And  then  when  she  had  laid 
her  unconscious  burden  on  the  sofa,  the  goddess  fled,  and 
a  woman,  helpless  and  trembling,  stood  before  him.  A 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  151 

woman  that  cried  out  that  she  had  "  killed  him  " — that  she 
was  "wicked  !  wicked  !"  and  that,  even  saying  so,  staggered 
and  fell  beside  her  late  burden.  And  all  that  Mr.  M'Closky 
could  do  was  to  feebly  rub  his  beard,  and  say  to  him- 
self, vaguely  and  incoherently,  that  "Jinny  had  fetched 
him." 


(      '52      ) 


CHAPTER  II. 

BEFORE  noon  the  next  day  it  was  generally  believed  through- 
out Four  Forks  that  Ridgeway  Dent  had  been  attacked  and 
wounded  at  Chemisal  Ridge  by  a  highwayman,  who  fled  on 
the  approach  of  the  Wingdam  coach.  It  is  to  be  presumed 
that  this  statement  met  with  Ridgeway's  approval,  as  he  did 
not  contradict  it,  nor  supplement  it  with  any  details.  His 
wound  was  severe,  but  not  dangerous.  After  the  first  excite- 
ment had  subsided,  there  was,  I  think,  a  prevailing  impres- 
sion, common  to  the  provincial  mind,  that  his  misfortune 
was  the  result  of  the  defective  moral  quality  of  his  being  a 
stranger,  and  was  in  a  vague  sort  of  a  way  a  warning  to 
others  and  a  lesson  to  him.  "  Did  you  hear  how  that  San 
Francisco  feller  was  took  down  the  other  night  ?  "  was  the 
average  tone  of  introductory  remark.  Indeed,  there  was  a 
general  suggestion  that  Ridgeway's  presence  was  one  that 
no  self-respecting,  high-minded  highwayman,  honourably 
conservative  of  the  best  interests  of  Tuolumne  County, 
could  for  a  moment  tolerate. 

Except  for  the  few  words  spoken  on  that  eventful  morning, 
Ridgeway  was  reticent  of  the  past.  When  Jinny  strove  to 
gather  some  details  of  the  affray  that  might  offer  a  clue  to 
his  unknown  assailant,  a  subtle  twinkle  in  his  brown  eyes 
was  the  only  response.  When  Mr.  M'Closky  attempted  the 
same  process,  the  young  gentleman  threw  abusive  epithets, 
and  eventually  slippers,  teaspoons,  and  other  lighter  articles 
within  the  reach  of  an  invalid,  at  the  head  of  his  questioner. 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  153 

"I  think  he's  coming  round,  Jinny,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky, 
"  he  laid  for  me  this  morning  with  a  candlestick." 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Miss  Jinny,  having  sworn  her 
father  to  secrecy  regarding  the  manner  in  which  Ridgeway 
had  been  carried  into  the  house,  conceived  the  idea  of 
addressing  the  young  man  as  "Mr.  Dent,"  and  of  apologis- 
ing for  intruding  whenever  she  entered  the  room  in  the 
discharge  of  her  household  duties.  It  was  about  this  time 
that  she  became  more  rigidly  conscientious  to  those  duties, 
and  less  general  in  her  attentions ;  it  was  at  this  time  that 
the  quality  of  the  invalid's  diet  improved,  and  that  she  con- 
sulted him  less  frequently  about  it.  It  was  about  this  time 
that  she  began  to  see  more  company,  that  the  house  was 
greatly  frequented  by  her  former  admirers,  with  whom  she 
rode,  walked,  and  danced.  It  was  at  about  this  time,  also, 
and  when  Ridgeway  was  able  to  be  brought  out  on  the 
veranda  in  a  chair,  that,  with  great  archness  of  manner,  she 
introduced  to  him  Miss  Lucy  Ashe,  the  sister  of  her  betrothed 
— a  flashing  brunette  and  terrible  heart-breaker  of  Four 
Forks.  And  in  the  midst  of  this  gaiety  she  concluded  that 
she  would  spend  a  week  with  the  Robinsons,  to  whom  she 
owed  a  visit.  She  enjoyed  herself  greatly  there,  so  much, 
indeed,  that  she  became  quite  hollow-eyed,  the  result,  as  she 
explained  to  her  father,  of  a  too  frequent  indulgence  in 
festivity.  "You  see,  father,  I  won't  have  many  chances 
after  John  and  I  are  married — you  know  how  queer  he  is — 
and  I  must  make  the  most  of  my  time,"  and  she  laughed  an 
odd  little  laugh,  which  had  lately  become  habitual  to  her. 
"  And  how  is  Mr.  Dent  getting  on  ?  "  Her  father  replied 
that  he  was  getting  on  very  well  indeed,  so  well,  in  fact, 
that  he  was  able  to  leave  for  San  Francisco  two  days  ago. 
"  He  wanted  to  be  remembered  to  you,  Jinny—  '  remembered 
kindly/ — yes,  they  is  the  very  words  he  used,"  said  Mr. 
M'Closky,  looking  down  and  consulting  one  of  his  large 


154  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

shoes  for  corroboration.  Miss  Jinny  was  glad  to  hear  that 
he  was  so  much  better.  Miss  Jinny  could  not  imagine 
anything  that  pleased  her  more  than  to  know  that  he  was  so 
strong  as  to  be  able  to  rejoin  his  friends  again,  who  must 
love  him  so  much  and  be  so  anxious  about  him.  Her  father^ 
thought  she  would  be  pleased,  and  now  that  he  was  gone 
there  was  really  no  necessity  for  her  to  hurry  back.  Miss 
Jinny,  in  a  high,  metallic  voice,  did  not  know  that  she  had 
expressed  any  desire  to  stay — still  if  her  presence  had  be- 
come distasteful  at  home — if  her  own  father  was  desirous  of 
getting  rid  of  her — if,  when  she  was  so  soon  to  leave  his  roof 
for  ever,  he  still  begrudged  her  those  few  days  remaining — 

if "  My  God,  Jinny,  so  help  me  ! "  said  Mr.  M'Closky, 

clutching  despairingly  at  his  beard,  "  I  didn't  go  for  to  say 
anything  of  the  kind.  I  thought  that  you  " 

"Never  mind,  father,"  interrupted  Jinny  magnanimously, 
"  you  misunderstood  me ;  of  course  you  did,  you  couldn't 
help  it — you're  a  MAN!"  Mr.  M'Closky,  sorely  crushed, 
would  have  vaguely  protested,  but  his  daughter,  having 
relieved  herself,  after  the  manner  of  her  sex,  with  a  mental 
personal  application  of  an  abstract  statement,  forgave  him 
with  a  kiss. 

Nevertheless,  for  two  or  three  days  after  her  return,  Mr. 
M'Closky  followed  his  daughter  about  the  house  with  yearn- 
ing eyes,  and  occasionally  with  timid,  diffident  feet.  Some- 
times he  came  upon  her  suddenly  at  her  household  tasks 
with  an  excuse  so  palpably  false,  and  a  careless  manner  so 
outrageously  studied,  that  she  was  fain  to  be  embarrassed 
for  him.  Later  he  took  to  rambling  about  the  house  at 
night,  and  was  often  seen  noiselessly  passing  and  repassing 
through  the  hall  after  she  had  retired.  On  one  occasion  he 
was  surprised  first  by  sleep  and  then  by  the  early-rising 
Jinny  as  he  lay  on  the  rug  outside  her  chamber  door. 
"  You  treat  me  like  a  child,  father,"  said  Jinny.  "  I  thought, 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  155 

Jinny,"  said  the  father  apologetically — "  I  thought  I  heard 
sounds  as  if  you  was  takin'  on  inside,  and  listenin'  I  fell 
asleep."  "  You  dear,  old,  simple-minded  baby,"  said  Jinny, 
looking  past  her  father's  eyes,  and  lifting  his  grizzled  locks 
one  by  one  with  meditative  fingers,  "what  should  I  be  takin' 
on  for  ?  Look  how  much  taller  I  am  than  you,"  she  said, 
suddenly  lifting  herself  up  to  the  extreme  of  her  superb 
figure.  Then  rubbing  his  head  rapidly  with  both  hands,  as 
if  she  were  anointing  his  hair  with  some  rare  unguent,  she 
patted  him  on  the  back  and  returned  to  her  room.  The 
result  of  this  and  one  or  two  other  equally  sympathetic 
interviews  was  to  produce  a  change  in  Mr.  M'Closky's 
manner,  which  was,  if  possible,  still  more  discomposing. 
He  grew  unjustifiably  hilarious,  cracked  jokes  with  the  ser- 
vants, and  repeated  to  Jinny  humorous  stories,  with  the 
attitude  of  facetiousness  carefully  preserved  throughout  the 
entire  narration,  and  the  point  utterly  ignored  and  forgotten. 
Certain  incidents  reminded  him  of  funny  things,  which 
invariably  turned  out  to  have  not  the  slightest  relevancy  or 
application.  He  occasionally  brought  home  with  him  prac- 
tical humorists,  with  a  sanguine  hope  of  setting  them  going, 
like  the  music-box,  for  his  daughter's  edification.  He  essayed 
the  singing  of  melodies  with  great  freedom  of  style  and 
singular  limitation  of  note.  He  sang  "  Come,  Haste  to  the 
Wedding,  ye  Lasses  and  Maidens,"  of  which  he  knew  a 
single  line,  and  that  incorrectly,  as  being  peculiarly  apt  and 
appropriate.  Yet  away  from  the  house  and  his  daughter's 
presence  he  was  silent  and  distraught.  His  absence  of 
mind  was  particularly  noted  by  his  workmen  at  the  "  Empire 
Quartz  Mill."  "  Ef  the  old  man  don't  look  out  and  wake 
up,"  said  his  foreman,  "  he'll  hev  them  feet  of  his  yet  under 
the  stamps.  When  he  ain't  givin'  his  mind  to  'em,  they  is 
altogether  too  promiskuss." 

A  few  nights  later,  Miss  Jinny  recognised  her  father's 


156  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

hand  in  a  timid  tap  at  the  door.  She  opened  it,  and  he 
stood  before  her,  with  a  valise  in  his  hand,  equipped  as  for 
a  journey.  "  I  takes  the  stage  to-night,  Jinny,  dear,  from 
Four  Forks  to  'Frisco.  Maybe  I  may  drop  in  on  Jack  afore 
I  go.  I'll  be  back  in  a  week.  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye."  He  still  held  her  hand.  Presently  he  drew 
her  back  into  the  room,  closing  the  door  carefully,  and 
glancing  around.  There  was  a  look  of  profound  cunning 
in  his  eye  as  he  said  slowly — 

11  Bear  up  and  keep  dark,  Jinny,  dear,  and  trust  to  the 
old  man.  Various  men  has  various  ways.  Thar  is  ways 
as  is  common  and  ways  as  is  oncommon,  ways  as  is  easy 
and  ways  as  is  oneasy.  Bear  up  and  keep  dark."  With 
this  Delphic  utterance  he  put  his  finger  to  his  lips  and 
vanished. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  he  reached  Four  Forks.  A  few 
minutes  later  he  stood  on  the  threshold  of  that  dwelling 
described  by  the  Four  Forks  "Sentinel"  as  "  the  palatial  resi- 
dence of  John  Ashe,"  and  known  to  the  local  satirist  as  the 
"ash-box."  "Hevin'  to  lay  by  two  hours,  John,"  he  said 
to  his  prospective  son-in-law,  as  he  took  his  hand  at  the 
door,  "  a  few  words  of  social  converse,  not  on  business,  but 
strictly  private,  seems  to  be  about  as  nat'ral  a  thing  as  a 
man  can  do."  This  introduction,  evidently  the  result  of 
some  study  and  plainly  committed  to  memory,  seemed  so 
satisfactory  to  Mr.  M'Closky  that  he  repeated  it  again,  after 
John  Ashe  had  led  him  into  his  private  office,  where, 
depositing  his  valise  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  sitting 
down  before  it,  he  began  carefully  to  avoid  the  eye  of  his 
host.  John  Ashe,  a  tall,  dark,  handsome  Kentuckian — with 
whom  even  the  trifles  of  life  were  evidently  full  of  serious 
import — waited  with  a  kind  of  chivalrous  respect  the  further 
speech  of  his  guest.  Being  utterly  devoid  of  any  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  he  always  accepted  Mr.  M'Closky  as  a  grave 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  157 

fact,  singular  only  from  his  own  want  of  experience  of  the 
class. 

"  Ores  is  running  light  now,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  with 
easy  indifference. 

John  Ashe  returned  that  he  had  noticed  the  same  fact  in 
the  receipts  of  the  mill  at  Four  Forks. 

Mr.  M'Closky  rubbed  his  beard  and  looked  at  his  valise, 
as  if  for  sympathy  and  suggestion. 

"You  don't  reckon  on  having  any  trouble  with  any  of 
them  chaps  ez  you  cut  out  with  Jinny? " 

John  Ashe,  rather  haughtily,  had  never  thought  of  that. 
"  I  saw  Ranee  hanging  round  your  house  the  other  night 
when  I  took  your  daughter  home,  but  he  gave  me  a  wide 
berth,"  he  added  carelessly. 

"Surely,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky,  with  a  peculiar  winking  of 
the  eye.  After  a  pause,  he  took  a  fresh  departure  from  his 
valise. 

"A  few  words,  John,  ez  between  man  and  man,  ez 
between  my  daughter's  father  and  her  husband  who  expects 
to  be,  is  about  the  thing,  I  take  it,  as  is  fair  and  square.  I 
kem  here  to  say  them.  They're  about  Jinny,  my  gal." 

Ashe's  grave  face  brightened,  to  Mr.  M'Closky' s  evident 
discomposure. 

"  Maybe  I  should  have  said,  about  her  mother ;  but  the 
same  bein'  a  stranger  t<5  you,  I  says,  nat'rally,  'Jinny.'" 

Ashe  nodded  courteously.  Mr.  M'Closky,  with  his  eyes 
on  his  valise,  went  on — 

"  It  is  sixteen  year  ago  as  I  married  Mrs.  M'Closky  in 
the  State  of  Missouri.  She  let  on,  at  the  time,  to  be  a  wid- 
der — a  widder  with  one  child.  When  I  say  let  on,  I  mean 
to  imply  that  I  subsequently  found  out  that  she  was  not  a 
widder,  nor  a  wife,  and  the  father  of  the  child  was,  so  to 
speak,  onbeknowst.  Thet  child  was  Jinny — my  gal." 

With  his  eyes  on  his  valise,   and  quietly  ignoring  the 


153  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

wholly-crimsoned  face  and  swiftly-darkening  brow  of  his  host, 
he  continued — 

"  Many  little  things  sorter  tended  to  make  our  home  in 
Missouri  onpleasant.  A  disposition  to  smash  furniture  and 
heave  knives  around,  an  inclination  to  howl  when  drunk, 
and  that  frequent ;  a  habitooal  use  of  vulgar  language,  and 
a  tendency  to  cuss  the  casooal  visitor,  seemed  to  pint," 
added  Mr.  M'Closky  with  submissive  hesitation — "thet — 
she — was — so  to  speak — quite  onsuited  to  the  marriage 
relation  in  its  holiest  aspeck." 

"  Damnation  !  Why  didn't " burst  out  John  Ashe, 

erect  and  furious. 

"At  the  end  of  two  year,"  continued  Mr.  M'Closky, 
still  intent  on  the  valise,  "  I  allowed  I'd  get  a  diworce.  Et 
about  thet  time,  however,  Providence  sends  a  circus  into 
thet  town  and  a  feller  ez  rode  three  hosses  to  onct.  Kevin' 
allez  a  taste  for  athletic  sports,  she  left  town  with  this  feller, 
leavin'  me  and  Jinny  behind.  I  sent  word  to  her  thet  if 
she  would  give  Jinny  to  me  we'd  call  it  quits.  And  she 
did." 

"  Tell  me,"  gasped  Ashe,  "  did  you  ask  your  daughter  to 
keep  this  from  me,  or  did  she  do  it  of  her  own  accord  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  know  it,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky  ;  "  she  thinks 
I'm  her  father,  and  that  her  mother's  dead." 

"  Then,  sir,  this  is  your  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky  slowly,  "ez  I've 
asked  any  one  to  marry  my  Jinny.  I  don't  know  ez  I've 
persood  that  ez  a  biziness,  or  even  taken  it  up  as  a  health- 
ful recreation." 

John  Ashe  paced  the  room  furiously.  Mr.  M'Closky's 
eyes  left  the  valise  and  followed  him  curiously.  "  Where 
is  this  woman?"  demanded  Ashe  suddenly.  M'Closky's 
eyes  sought  the  valise  again. 

"  She   went   to   Kansas ;    from    Kansas   she   went   into 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  1 59 

Texas.  From  Texas  she  eventooally  came  to  Californy. 
Being  here,  I've  purvided  her  with  money — when  her 
business  was  slack — through  a  friend." 

John  Ashe  groaned.  "  She's  gettin'  rather  old  and  shaky 
for  hosses,  and  now  does  the  tight-rope  business  and  flying 
trapeze.  Never  hevin5  seen  her  perform,"  continued  Mr. 
M'Closky,  with  conscientious  caution,  "  I  can't  say  how  she 
gets  on.  On  the  bills  she  looks  well.  Thar  is  a  poster," 
said  Mr.  M'Closky,  glancing  at  Ashe,  and  opening  his 
valise, — "  thar  is  a  poster  givin'  her  performance  at  Marys- 
ville  next  month."  Mr.  M'Closky  slowly  unfolded  a  large 
yellow  and  blue  printed  poster,  profusely  illustrated.  "  She 
calls  herself  *  Mam'selle  J.  Miglawski — the  great  Russian 
Trapeziste.' " 

John  Ashe  tore  it  from  his  hand.  "  Of  course,"  he  said, 
suddenly  facing  Mr.  M'Closky,  "  you  don't  expect  me  to 
go  on  with  this  ?  " 

Mr.  M'Closky  picked  up  the  poster,  carefully  refolded  it 
and  returned  it  to  his  valise.  "  When  you  break  off  with 
Jinny,"  he  said  quietly,  "  I  don't  want  anything  said  'bout 
this.  She  doesn't  know  it.  She's  a  woman,  and  I  reckon 
you're  a  white  man." 

"  But  what  am  I  to  say  ?  How  am  I  to  go  back  of  my 
word  ?  " 

"Write  her  a  note.  Say  something  hez  come  to  your 
knowledge — don't  say  what — that  makes  you  break  it  off. 
You  needn't  be  afeard  Jinny'll  ever  ask  you  what." 

John  Ashe  hesitated.  He  felt  he  had  been  cruelly 
wronged.  No  gentleman — no  Ashe — could  go  on  further 
in  this  affair.  It  was  preposterous  to  think  of  it.  But  some- 
how he  felt  at  the  moment  very  unlike  a  gentleman  or  an 
Ashe,  and  was  quite  sure  he  should  break  down  under 
Jinny's  steady  eyes.  But  then — he  could  write  to  her. 

"  So  ores  is  about  as  light  here  as  on  the  Ridge.     Well, 


1 60  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

I  reckon  they'll  come  up  before  the  rains.  Good  night." 
Mr.  M'Closky  took  the  hand  that  his  host  mechanically 
extended,  shook  it  gravely,  and  was  gone. 

When  Mr.  M'Closky,  a  week  later,  stepped  again  upon 
his  own  veranda,  he  saw  through  the  French  window  the 
figure  of  a  man  in  his  parlour.  Under  his  hospitable  roof 
the  sight  was  not  unusual,  but  for  an  instant  a  subtle  sense 
of  disappointment  thrilled  him.  When  he  saw  it  was  not  the 
face  of  Ashe  turned  toward  him  he  was  relieved,  but  when 
he  saw  the  tawny  beard  and  quick,  passionate  eyes  of  Henry 
Ranee  he  felt  a  new  sense  of  apprehension,  so  that  he  fell 
to  rubbing  his  beard  almost  upon  his  very  threshold. 

Jinny  ran  into  the  hall,  and  seized  her  father  with  a  little 
cry  of  joy.  "Father,"  said  Jinny,  in  a  hurried  whisper, 
"don't  mind  him" — indicating  Ranee  with  a  toss  of  her 
yellow  braids — "he's  going  soon,  and  I  think,  father,  I've 
done  him  wrong.  But  it's  all  over  with  John  and  me  now ; 
read  that  note,  and  see  how  he's  insulted  me."  Her  lip 
quivered,  but  she  went  on :  "  It's  Ridgeway  that  he  means, 
father,  and  I  believe  it  was  his  hand  struck  Ridgeway  down, 
or  that  he  knows  who  did.  But  hush,  now;  not  a  word." 

She  gave  him  a  feverish  kiss,  and  glided  back  into  the 
parlour,  leaving  Mr.  M'Closky  perplexed  and  irresolute  with 
the  note  in  his  hand.  He  glanced  at  it  hurriedly  and  saw 
that  it  was  couched  in  almost  the  very  words  he  had  sug- 
gested. But  a  sudden  apprehensive  recollection  came  over 
him;  he  listened,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  dismay  he 
seized  his  hat  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  But  too  late ;  at 
the  same  moment  a  quick,  nervous  footstep  was  heard  upon 
the  veranda,  the  French  window  flew  open,  and  with  a  light 
laugh  of  greeting  Ridgeway  stepped  into  the  room. 

Jinny's  finer  ear  first  caught  the  step,  Jinny's  swifter  feel- 
ings had  sounded  the  depths  of  hope,  of  joy,  of  despair 
before  he  entered  the  room.  Jinny's  pale  face  was  the 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  161 

only  one  that  met  his,  self-possessed  and  self-reliant,  when 
he  stood  before  them.  An  angry  flush  suffused  even  the 
pink  roots  of  Ranee's  beard  as  he  rose  to  his  feet ;  an  omi- 
nous fire  sprang  into  Ridgeway's  eyes,  and  a  spasm  of  hate 
and  scorn  passed  over  the  lower  part  of  his  face  and  left 
the  mouth  and  jaw  immobile  and  rigid. 

Yet  he  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  I  owe  you  an  apology," 
he  said  to  Jinny,  with  a  suave  scorn  that  brought  the  indig- 
nant blood  back  to  her  cheek,  "for  this  intrusion,  but  I  ask 
no  pardon  for  withdrawing  from  the  only  spot  where  that 
man  dare  confront  me  with  safety." 

With  an  exclamation  of  rage,  Ranee  sprang  toward  him. 
But  as  quickly  Jinny  stood  between  them,  erect  and  menac- 
ing. "  There  must  be  no  quarrel  here,"  she  said  to  Ranee. 
"  While  I  protect  your  right  as  my  guest,  don't  oblige  me 
to  remind  you  of  mine  as  your  hostess."  She  turned  with 
a  half-deprecatory  air  to  Ridgeway,  but  he  was  gone.  So 
was  her  father.  Only  Ranee  remained,  with  a  look  of  ill- 
concealed  triumph  on  his  face. 

Without  looking  at  him  she  passed  toward  the  door. 
When  she  reached  it  she  turned.  "  You  asked  me  a  question 
an  hour  ago.  Come  to  me  in  the  garden  at  nine  o'clock 
to-night  and  I  will  answer  you.  But  promise  me  first  to 
keep  away  from  Mr.  Dent ;  give  me  your  word  not  to  seek 
him — to  avoid  him  if  he  seeks  you.  Do  you  promise? 
It  is  well." 

He  would  have  taken  her  hand,  but  she  waved  him  away. 
In  another  moment  he  heard  the  swift  rustle  of  her  dress 
in  the  hall,  the  sound  of  her  feet  upon  the  stair,  the  sharp 
closing  of  her  bedroom  door,  and  all  was  quiet. 

And  even  thus  quietly  the  day  wore  away,  and  the  night 
rose  slowly  from  the  valley  and  overshadowed  the  mountains 
with  purple  wings  that  fanned  the  still  air  into  a  breeze,  until 
the  moon  followed  it  and  lulled  everything  to  rest  as  with 

VOL.  in.  L 


1 62  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

the  laying  on  of  white  and  benedictory  hands.  It  was  a 
lovely  night,  but  Henry  Ranee,  waiting  impatiently  beneath 
a  sycamore  at  the  foot  of  the  garden,  saw  no  beauty  in  earth 
or  air  or  sky.  A  thousand  suspicions  common  to  a  jealous 
nature,  a  vague  superstition  of  the  spot,  rilled  his  mind  with 
distrust  and  doubt  "  If  this  should  be  a  trick  to  keep  my 
hands  off  that  insolent  pup  ! "  he  muttered,  but  even  as  the 
thought  passed 'his  tongue,  a  white  figure  slid  from  the  shrub- 
bery near  the  house,  glided  along  the  line  of  picket  fence, 
and  then  stopped,  midway,  motionless  in  the  moonlight. 

It  was  she.  But  he  scarcely  recognised  her  in  the  white 
drapery  that  covered  her  head  and  shoulders  and  breast. 
He  approached  her  with  a  hurried  whisper.  "  Let  us  with- 
draw from  the  moonlight.  Everybody  can  see  us  here." 

"  We  have  nothing  to  say  that  cannot  be  said  in  the  moon- 
light, Henry  Ranee,"  she  replied,  coldly  receding  from  his 
proffered  hand.  She  trembled  for  a  moment,  as  if  with  a 
chill,  and  then  suddenly  turned  upon  him  :  "  Hold  up 
your  head,  and  let  me  look  at  you  !  I've  known  only  what 
men  are  :  let  me  see  what  a  traitor  looks  like  ! " 

He  recoiled  more  from  her  wild  face  than  her  words. 
He  saw  for  the  first  time  that  her  hollow  cheeks  and  hollow 
eyes  were  blazing  with  fever.  He  was  no  coward,  but  he 
would  have  fled. 

"  You  are  ill,  Jinny,"  he  said ;  "  you  had  best  return  to 
the  house.  Another  time  " 

"Stop  !  "  she  cried  hoarsely ;  "move  from  this  spot,  and 
I'll  call  for  help  !  Attempt  to  leave  me  now,  and  I'll  pro- 
claim you  the  assassin  that  you  are  ! " 

"  It  was  a  fair  fight,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"Was  it  a  fair  fight  to  creep  behind  an  unarmed  and 
unsuspecting  man?  Was  it  a  fair  fight  to  try  to  throw 
suspicion  on  some  one  else  ?  Was  it  a  fair  fight  to  deceive 
me  ?  Liar  and  coward  that  you  are  ! " 


The  Rose  of  Tuoiumne.  163 

He  made  a  stealthy  step  toward  her  with  evil  eyes,  and 
a  wickeder  hand  that  crept  within  his  breast.  She  saw  the 
motion,  but  it  only  stung  her  to  newer  fury. 

"  Strike  ! "  she  said,  with  blazing  eyes,  throwing  her  hands 
open  before  him.  "  Strike  !  Are  you  afraid  of  the  woman 
who  dares  you  ?  or  do  you  keep  your  knife  for  the  backs  of 
unsuspecting  men  ?  Strike  !  I  tell  you  !  No  ?  Look  then  ! " 
With  a  sudden  movement  she  tore  from  her  head  and 
shoulders  the  thick  lace  shawl  that  had  concealed  her  figure 
and  stood  before  him.  "  Look  !  "  she  cried  passionately, 
pointing  to  the  bosom  and  shoulders  of  her  white  dress, 
darkly  streaked  with  faded  stains  and  ominous  discolouration. 
"Look!  This  is  the  dress  I  wore  that  morning  when  I 
found  him  lying  here — here — bleeding  from  your  cowardly 
knife.  Look  !  Do  you  see  ?  This  is  his  blood — my  darling 
boy's  blood  ! — one  drop  of  which,  dead  and  faded  as  it  is,  is 
more  precious  to  me  than  the  whole  living  pulse  of  any 
other  man  !  Look  !  I  come  to  you  to-night  christened  with 
his  blood  and  dare  you  to  strike — dare  you  to  strike  him 
again  through  me  and  mingle  my  blood  with  his  !  Strike,  I 
implore  you  !  Strike  !  if  you  have  any  pity  on  me — for  God's 
sake  !  Strike  !  if  you  are  a  man  !  Look  !  Here  lay  his 
head  on  my  shoulder ;  here  I  held  him  to  my  breast,  where 
never — so  help  me  my  God  ! — another  man Ah  !  " 

She  reeled  against  the  fence,  and  something  that  had 
flashed  in  Ranee's  hand  dropped  at  her  feet ;  for  another 
flash  and  report  rolled  him  over  in  the  dust,  and  across  his 
writhing  body  two  men  strode  and  caught  her  ere  she  fell. 

"She  has  only  fainted,"  said  Mr.  M'Closky.  "Jinny, 
dear,  my  girl,  speak  to  me  !  " 

"  What  is  this  on  her  dress  ? "  said  Ridgeway,  kneeling 
beside  her,  and  lifting  his  set  and  colourless  face.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice  the  colour  came  faintly  back  to  her  cheek ; 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  smiled. 


164  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

\ 

"  It's  only  your  blood,  dear  boy,"  she  said ;  "  but  look  a 
little  deeper  and  you'll  find  my  own." 

She  put  up  her  two  yearning  hands  and  drew  his  face 
and  lips  down  to  her  own.  When  Ridgeway  raised  his  head 
again  her  eyes  were  closed,  but  her  mouth  still  smiled  as 
with  the  memory  of  a  kiss. 

They  bore  her  to  the  house  still  breathing  but  uncon- 
scious. That  night  the  road  was  filled  with  clattering 
horsemen,  and  the  summoned  skill  of  the  country  side  for 
leagues  away  gathered  at  her  couch.  The  wound,  they  said, 
was  not  essentially  dangerous,  but  they  had  grave  fears  of 
the  shock  to  a  system  that  already  seemed  suffering  from 
some  strange  and  unaccountable  nervous  exhaustion.  The 
best  medical  skill  of  Tuolumne  happened  to  be  young  and 
observing,  and  waited  patiently  an  opportunity  to  account 
for  it.  He  was  presently  rewarded. 

For  toward  morning  she  rallied  and  looked  feebly  around. 
Then  she  beckoned  her  father  toward  her,  and  whispered, 
"Where  is  he?" 

"  They  took  him  away,  Jinny,  dear,  in  a  cart.  He  'won't 
trouble  you  agin."  He  stopped,  for  Miss  Jinny  had  raised 
herself  on  her  elbow,  and  was  levelling  her  black  brows  at 
him.  But  two  kicks  from  the  young  surgeon,  and  a  signi- 
ficant motion  toward  the  door,  sent  Mr.  M'Closky  away, 
muttering,  "How  should  I  know  that  lhe'  meant  Ridgeway?" 
he  said  apologetically,  as  he  went  and  returned  with  the 
young  gentleman.  The  surgeon,  who  was  still  holding  her 
pulse,  smiled,  and  thought  that  with  a  little  care — and  at- 
tention— the  stimulants — might  be — diminished — and — he 
— might  leave — the  patient  for  some  hours,  with  perfect 
safety.  He  would  give  further  directions  to  Mr.  M'Closky 
— downstairs. 

It  was  with  great  archness  of  manner  that  half  an  hour 
later  Mr.  M'Closky  entered  the  room  with  a  preparatory 


The  Rose  of  Tuolumne.  165 

cough,  and  it  was  with  some  disappointment  that  he  found 
Ridgeway  standing  quietly  by  the  window,  and  his  daughter 
apparently  fallen  into  a  light  doze.  He  was  still  more 
concerned  when,  after  Ridgeway  had  retired,  noticing  a 
pleasant  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  he  said  softly — 

"  You  was  thinking  of  some  one,  Jinny  ?  " 

"Yes,  father  " — the  gray  eyes  met  his  steadily — "  of  poor 
John  Ashe !  " 

Her  recovery  was  swift.  Nature,  that  had  seemed  to 
stand  jealously  aloof  from  her  in  her  mental  anguish,  was 
kind  to  the  physical  hurt  of  her  favourite  child  The  superb 
physique  which  had  been  her  charm  and  her  trial,  now  stood 
her  in  good  stead.  The  healing  balsam  of  the  pine,  the  balm 
of  resinous  gums,  and  the  rare  medicaments  of  Sierran  alti- 
tudes touched  her  as  it  might  have  touched  the  wounded 
doe.  So  that  in  two  weeks  she  was  able  to  walk  about,  and 
when  at  the  end  of  the  month  Ridgeway  returned  from  a 
flying  visit  to  San  Francisco,  and  jumped  from  the  Wingdarn 
coach  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  Rose  of  Tuolumne, 
with  the  dewy  petals  of  either  cheek  fresh  as  when  first  un- 
folded to  his  kiss,  confronted  him  on  the  road. 

With  a  common  instinct  their  young  feet  both  climbed 
the  little  hill  now  sacred  to  their  thought.  When  they 
reached  its  summit  they  were  both,  I  think,  a  little  disap- 
pointed. There  is  a  fragrance  in  the  unfolding  of  a  passion 
that  escapes  the  perfect  flower.  Jinny  thought  the  night 
was  not  as  beautiful;  Ridgeway,  that  the  long  ride  had 
blunted  his  perceptions.  But  they  had  the  frankness  to 
confess  it  to  each  other,  with  the  rare  delight  of  such  a  con- 
fession and  the  comparison  of  details  which  they  thought 
each  had  forgotten.  And  with  this  and  an  occasional  pity- 
ing reference  to  the  blank  period  when  they  had  not  known 
each  other,  hand  in  hand,  they  reached  the  house. 

Mr.  M'Closky  was  awaiting  them  impatiently  upon  the 


1 66  The  Rose  of  Tuolumne. 

veranda.  When  Miss  Jinny  had  slipped  upstairs  to  re- 
place a  collar  that  stood  somewhat  suspiciously  awry,  Mr. 
M'Closky  drew  Ridgeway  solemnly  aside.  He  held  a  large 
theatre  poster  in  one  hand,  and  an  open  newspaper  in  the 
other. 

"  I  allus  said,"  he  remarked  slowly,  with  the  air  of  merely 
renewing  a  suspended  conversation, — "  I  allus  said  that 
riding  three  hosses  to  onct  wasn't  exactly  in  her  line.  It 
would  seem  that  it  ain't.  From  remarks  in  this  yer  paper, 
it  would  appear  that  she  tried  it  on  at  Marysville  last  week, 
and  broke  her  neck." 


(     167    ) 


a  9@onte  jTlat 

HOW    OLD    MAN    PLUNKETT    WENT    HOME. 

I  THINK  we  all  loved  him.  Even  after  he  mismanaged  the 
affairs  of  the  Amity  Ditch  Company,  we  commiserated  him, 
although  most  of  us  were  stockholders  and  lost  heavily.  I 
remember  that  the  blacksmith  went  so  far  as  to  say  that 
"them  chaps  as  put  that  responsibility  on  the  old  man 
oughter  be  lynched."  But  the  blacksmith  was  not  a  stock- 
holder, and  the  expression  was  looked  upon  as  the  excus- 
able extravagance  of  a  large,  sympathising  nature,  that,  when 
combined  with  a  powerful  frame,  was  unworthy  of  notice. 
At  least,  that  was  the  way  they  put  it.  Yet  I  think  there 
was  a  general  feeling  of  regret  that  this  misfortune  would 
interfere  with  the  old  man's  long-cherished  plan  of  "going 
home." 

Indeed,  for  the  last  ten  years  he  had  been  "going  home.* 
He  was  going  home  after  a  six  months'  sojourn  at  Monte 
Flat.  He  was  going  home  after  the  first  rains.  He  was 
going  home  when  the  rains  were  over.  He  was  going  home 
when  he  had  cut  the  timber  on  Buckeye  Hill,  when  there 
was  pasture  on  Dow's  Flat,  when  he  struck  pay-dirt  on 
Eureka  Hill,  when  the  Amity  Company  paid  its  first  divi- 
dend, when  the  election  was  over,  when  he  had  received 
an  answer  from  his  wife.  And  so  the  years  rolled  by,  the 
spring  rains  came  and  went,  the  woods  of  Buckeye  Hill 
vrere  level  with  the  ground,  the  pasture  on  Dow's  Flat  grew 


1 68  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

sere  and  dry,  Eureka  Hill  yielded  its  pay-dirt  and  swamped 
its  owner,  the  first  dividends  of  the  Amity  Company  were 
made  from  the  assessments  of  stockholders,  there  were  new 
county  officers  at  Monte  Flat,  his  wife's  answer  had  changed 
into  a  persistent  question,  and  still  old  man  Plunkett 
remained. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  he  had  made  several  distinct 
essays  towards  going.  Five  years  before  he  had  bidden 
good-bye  to  Monte  Hill  with  much  effusion  and  hand-shak- 
ing. But  he  never  got  any  farther  than  the  next  town. 
Here  he  was  induced  to  trade  the  sorrel  colt  he  was  riding 
for  a  bay  mare — a  transaction  that  at  once  opened  to  his 
lively  fancy  a  vista  of  vast  and  successful  future  speculation. 
A  few  days  after,  Abner  Dean  of  Angel's  received  a  letter 
from  him  stating  that  he  was  going  to  Visalia  to  buy  horses. 
"  I  am  satisfied,"  wrote  Plunkett,  with  that  elevated  rhetoric 
for  which  his  correspondence  was  remarkable,  "  I  am  satis- 
fied that  we  are  at  last  developing  the  real  resources  of 
California.  The  world  will  yet  look  to  Dow's  Flat  as  the 
great  stock-raising  centre.  In  view  of  the  interests  involved  I 
have  deferred  my  departure  for  a  month."  It  was  two  months 
before  he  again  returned  to  us,  penniless.  Six  months  later 
he  was  again  enabled  to  start  for  the  Eastern  States,  and 
this  time  he  got  as  far  as  San  Francisco.  I  have  before  me 
a  letter  which  I  received  a  few  days  after  his  arrival,  from 
which  I  venture  to  give  an  extract :  "  You  know,  my  dear 
boy,  that  I  have  always  believed  that  gambling,  as  it  is 
absurdly  called,  is  still  in  its  infancy  in  California.  I  have 
always  maintained  that  a  perfect  system  might  be  invented, 
by  which  the  game  of  poker  may  be  made  to  yield  a  certain 
percentage  to  the  intelligent  player.  I  am  not  at  liberty  at 
present  to  disclose  the  system,  but  before  leaving  this  city 
I  intend  to  perfect  it."  He  seems  to  have  done  so,  and 
teturned  to  Monte  Flat  with  two  dollars  and  thirty-seven 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  169 

cents,   the  absolute  remainder  of  his  capital  after  such 
perfection. 

It  was  not  until  1868  that  he  appeared  to  have  finally 
succeeded  in  going  home.  He  left  us  by  the  overland 
route — a  route  which  he  declared  would  give  great  oppor- 
tunity for  the  discovery  of  undeveloped  resources.  His 
last  letter  was  dated  Virginia  City.  He  was  absent  three 
years.  At  the  close  of  a  very  hot  day  in  midsummer  he 
alighted  from  the  Wingdam  stage  with  hair  and  beard 
powdered  with  dust  and  age.  There  was  a  certain  shyness 
about  his  greeting,  quite  different  from  his  usual  frank 
volubility,  that  did  not,  however,  impress  us  as  any  acces- 
sion of  character.  For  some  days  he  was  reserved  regard- 
ing his  recent  visit,  contenting  himself  with  asserting,  with 
more  or  less  aggressiveness,  that  he  had  "  always  said  he 
was  going  home,  and  now  he  had  been  there."  Later,  he 
grew  more  communicative,  and  spoke  freely  and  critically 
of  the  manners  and  customs  of  New  York  and  Boston,  com- 
mented on  the  social  changes  in  the  years  of  his  absence, 
and,  I  remember,  was  very  hard  upon  what  he  deemed  the 
follies  incidental  to  a  high  state  of  civilisation.  Still  later, 
he  darkly  alluded  to  the  moral  laxity  of  the  higher  planes 
of  Eastern  society,  but  it  was  not  long  before  he  completely 
tore  away  the  veil  and  revealed  the  naked  wickedness  of 
New  York  social  life  in  a  way  I  even  now  shudder  to  recall. 
Vinous  intoxication,  it  appeared,  was  a  common  habit  of  the 
first  ladies  of  the  city ;  immoralities  which  he  scarcely  dared 
name  were  daily  practised  by  the  refined  of  both  sexes ; 
niggardliness  and  greed  were  the  common  vices  of  the  rich. 
"  I  have  always  asserted,"  he  continued,  "that  corruption 
must  exist  where  luxury  and  riches  are  rampant,  and  capital 
is  not  used  to  develop  the  natural  resources  of  the  country. 
Thank  you — I  will  take  mine  without  sugar."  It  is  possible 
that  some  of  these  painful  details  crept  into  the  local 


1 70  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

journals.  I  remember  an  editorial  in  the  "Monte  Flat 
Monitor,"  entitled  "  The  Effete  East,"  in  which  the  fatal 
decadence  of  New  York  and  New  England  was  elaborately 
stated,  and  California  offered  as  a  means  of  natural  salva- 
tion. "Perhaps,"  said  the  "  Monitor,"  "we  might  add  that 
Calaveras  County  offers  superior  inducements  to  the  Eastern 
visitor  with  capital." 

Later  he  spoke  of  his  family.  The  daughter  he  had  left 
a  child  had  grown  into  beautiful  womanhood  ;  the  son  was 
already  taller  and  larger  than  his  father,  and  in  a  playful 
trial  of  strength,  "  the  young  rascal,"  added  Plunkett,  with 
a  voice  broken  with  paternal  pride  and  humorous  objurga- 
tion, had  twice  thrown  his  doting  parent  to  the  ground. 
But  it  was  of  his  daughter  he  chiefly  spoke.  Perhaps 
emboldened  by  the  evident  interest  which  masculine  Monte 
Flat  held  in  feminine  beauty,  he  expatiated  at  some  length 
on  her  various  charms  and  accomplishments,  and  finally 
produced  her  photograph — that  of  a  very  pretty  girl — to 
their  infinite  peril.  But  his  account  of  his  first  meeting 
with  her  was  so  peculiar  that  I  must  fain  give  it  after  his 
own  methods,  which  were,  perhaps,  some  shades  less  pre- 
cise and  elegant  than  his  written  style. 

"  You  see,  boys,  it's  always  been  my  opinion  that  a  man 
oughter  be  able  to  tell  his  own  flesh  and  blood  by  instinct. 
It's  ten  years  since  I'd  seen  my  Melindy,  and  she  was  then 
only  seven,  and  about  so  high.  So,  when  I  went  to  New 
York,  what  did  I  do  ?  Did  I  go  straight  to  my  house  and 
ask  for  my  wife  and  daughter,  like  other  folks  ?  No,  sir ! 
I  rigged  myself  up  as  a  pedlar,  as  a  pedlar,  sir,  and  I 
rung  the  bell.  When  the  servant  came  to  the  door,  I 
wanted — don't  you  see — to  show  the  ladies  some  trinkets. 
Then  there  was  a  voice  over  the  banister,  says,  '  Don't 
want  anything  —  send  him  away.'  '  Some  nice  laces, 
ma'am,  smuggled,'  I  says,  looking  up.  *  Get  out,  you 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  1 7 1 

wretch/  says  she.  I  knew  the  voice,  boys — it  was  my 
wife  ;  sure  as  a  gun — thar  wasn't  any  instinct  thar.  '  May- 
be the  young  ladies  want  somethin','  I  said.  'Did  you 
hear  me  ! '  says  she,  and  with  that  she  jumps  forward  and 
I  left.  It's  ten  years,  boys,  since  I've  seen  the  old  woman, 
but  somehow,  when  she  fetched  that  leap,  I  naterally 
left." 

He  had  been  standing  beside  the  bar — his  usual  attitude 
— when  he  made  this  speech,  but  at  this  point  he  half-faced 
his  auditors  with  a  look  that  was  very  effective.  Indeed,  a 
few,  who  had  exhibited  some  signs  of  scepticism  and  lack 
of  interest,  at  once  assumed  an  appearance  of  intense 
gratification  and  curiosity  as  he  went  on. 

"  Well,  by  hangin'  round  there  for  a  day  or  two,  I  found 
out  at  last  it  was  to  be  Melindy's  birthday  next  week,  and 
that  she  was  goin'  to  have  a  big  party.  I  tell  ye  what,  boys, 
it  weren't  no  slouch  of  a  reception.  The  whole  house  was 
bloomin'  with  flowers,  and  blazin'  with  lights,  and  there 
was  no  end  of  servants  and  plate  and  refreshments  and 
fixin's" 

"  Uncle  Joe." 

"Well?" 

"  Where  did  they  get  the  money  ?  " 

Plunkett  faced  his  interlocutor  with  a  severe  glance. 
M I  always  said,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  that  when  I  went 
home,  I'd  send  on  ahead  of  me  a  draft  for  ten  thousand 
dollars.  I  always  said  that,  didn't  I  ?  Eh  ?  And  I  said 
I  was  goin'  home  —  and  I've  been  home  —  haven't  I  ? 
Well  ?  " 

Either  there  was  something  irresistibly  conclusive  in  this 
logic,  or  else  the  desire  to  hear  the  remainder  of  Plunkett's 
story  was  stronger,  but  there  was  no  more  interruption. 
His  ready  good-humour  quickly  returned,  and,  with  a  slight 
chuckle,  he  went  on. 


172  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

"  I  went  to  the  biggest  jewellery  shop  in  town,  and  I 
bought  a  pair  of  diamond  earrings  and  put  them  in  my 
pocket,  and  went  to  the  house.  *  What  name  ? '  says  the 
chap  who  opened  the  door,  and  he  looked  like  a  cross 
'twixt  a  restaurant  waiter  and  a  parson.  *  Skeesicks,'  said 
I.  He  takes  me  in,  and  pretty  soon  my  wife  comes  sailin' 
into  the  parlour,  and  says,  '  Excuse  me,  but  I  don't  think 
I  recognise  the  name.'  She  was  mighty  polite,  for  I  had 
on  a  red  wig  and  side-whiskers.  'A  friend  of  your  husband's 
from  California,  ma'am,  with  a  present  for  your  daughter, 

Miss ' ,  and  I  made  as  I  had  forgot  the  name.     But  all 

of  a  sudden  a  voice  said,  '  That's  too  thin,'  and  in  walked 
Melindy.  'It's  playin'  it  rather  low  down,  father,  to  pre- 
tend you  don't  know  your  daughter's  name — ain't  it  now? 
How  are  you,  old  man  ? '  And  with  that  she  tears  off  my 
wig  and  whiskers,  and  throws  her  arms  around  my  neck, 
— instinct,  sir,  pure  instinct  !" 

Emboldened  by  the  laughter  which  followed  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  filial  utterances  of  Melinda,  he  again  repeated 
her  speech,  with  more  or  less  elaboration,  joining  in  with, 
and  indeed  often  leading,  the  hilarity  that  accompanied  it, 
and  returning  to  it  with  more  or  less  incoherency,  several 
times  during  the  evening. 

And  so  at  various  times,  and  at  various  places — but 
chiefly  in  bar-rooms — did  this  Ulysses  of  Monte  Flat 
recount  the  story  of  his  wanderings.  There  were  several 
discrepancies  in  his  statement,  there  was  sometimes  con- 
siderable prolixity  of  detail,  there  was  occasional  change 
of  character  and  scenery,  there  was  once  or  twice  an 
absolute  change  in  the  denouement,  but  always  the  fact 
of  his  having  visited  his  wife  and  children  remained.  Of 
course  in  a  sceptical  community  like  that  of  Monte  Flat — 
a  community  accustomed  to  great  expectation  and  small 
realisation — a  community  wherein,  to  use  the  local  dialect, 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  1 73 

"they  got  the  colour  and  struck  hardpan,"  more  frequently 
than  any  other  mining  camp — in  such  a  community  the 
fullest  credence  was  not  given  to  old  man  Plunkett's  facts. 
There  was  only  one  exception  to  the  general  unbelief — 
Henry  York  of  Sandy  Bar.  It  was  he  who  was  always  an 
attentive  listener ;  it  was  his  scant  purse  that  had  often 
furnished  Plunkett  with  means  to  pursue  his  unprofitable 
speculations ;  it  was  to  him  that  the  charms  of  Melinda 
were  more  frequently  rehearsed;  it  was  he  that  had  bor- 
rowed her  photograph ;  and  it  was  he  that,  sitting  alone  in 
his  little  cabin  one  night,  kissed  that  photograph  until  his 
honest,  handsome  face  glowed  again  in  the  firelight 

It  was  dusty  in  Monte  Flat.  The  ruins  of  the  long,  dry 
season  were  crumbling  everywhere ;  everywhere  the  dying 
summer  had  strewn  its  red  ashes  a  foot  deep  or  exhaled  its 
last  breath  in  a  red  cloud  above  the  troubled  highways.  The 
alders  and  cotton-woods  that  marked  the  line  of  the  water- 
courses were  grimy  with  dust,  and  looked  as  if  they  might 
have  taken  root  in  the  open  air ;  the  gleaming  stones  of  the 
parched  water-courses  themselves  were  as  dry  bones  in  the 
valley  of  death.  The  dusty  sunset  at  times  painted  the 
flanks  of  the  distant  hills  a  dull,  coppery  hue  ;  on  other 
days  there  was  an  odd,  indefinable  earthquake  halo  on  the 
volcanic  cones  of  the  farther  coast  spurs ;  again,  an  acid, 
resinous  smoke  from  the  burning  wood  on  Heavytree  Hill 
smarted  the  eyes  and  choked  the  free  breath  of  Monte  Flat, 
or  a  fierce  wind,  driving  everything — including  the  shrivelled 
summer  like  a  curled  leaf — before  it,  swept  down  the 
flanks  of  the  Sierras  and  chased  the  inhabitants  to  the  doors 
of  their  cabins,  and  shook  its  red  fist  in  at  their  windows. 
And  on  such  a  night  as  this — the  dust  having,  in  some 
way,  choked  the  wheels  of  material  progress  in  Monte  Flat 
— most  of  the  inhabitants  were  gathered  listlessly  in  the 
gilded  bar-room  of  the  Moquelumne  Hotel,  spitting  silently 


1 74  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

at  the  redhot  stove  that  tempered  the  mountain  winds 
to  the  shorn  lambs  of  Monte  Flat,  and  waiting  for  the 
rain. 

Every  method  known  to  the  Flat  of  beguiling  the  time 
until  the  advent  of  this  long-looked-for  phenomenon  had 
been  tried.  It  is  true  the  methods  were  not  many,  being 
limited  chiefly  to  that  form  of  popular  facetiae  known  as 
practical  joking ;  and  even  this  had  assumed  the  seriousness 
of  a  business  pursuit.  Tommy  Roy,  who  had  spent  two 
hours  in  digging  a  ditch  in  front  of  his  own  door — into 
which  a  few  friends  casually  dropped  during  the  evening — 
looked  ennuy'e  and  dissatisfied ;  the  four  prominent  citizens, 
who,  disguised  as  footpads,  had  stopped  the  County 
Treasurer  on  the  Wingdam  road,  were  jaded  from  their 
playful  efforts  next  morning;  the  principal  physician  and 
lawyer  of  Monte  Flat,  who  had  entered  into  an  unhallowed 
conspiracy  to  compel  the  Sheriff  of  Calaveras  and  his  posse 
to  serve  a  writ  of  ejectment  on  a  grizzly  bear,  feebly  dis- 
guised under  the  name  of  "  one  Major  Ursus,"  who  haunted 
the  groves  of  Heavytree  Hill,  wore  an  expression  of  resigned 
weariness.  Even  the  editor  of  the  "  Monte  Flat  Monitor,"  who 
had  that  morning  written  a  glowing  account  of  a  battle  with 
the  Wipneck  Indians  for  the  benefit  of  Eastern  readers — 
even  he  looked  grave  and  worn.  When,  at  last,  Abner 
Dean  of  Angel's,  who  had  been  on  a  visit  to  San  Francisco, 
walked  into  the  room,  he  was,  of  course,  victimised  in  the 
usual  way  by  one  or  two  apparently  honest  questions  which 
ended  in  his  answering  them,  and  then  falling  into  the 
trap  of  asking  another  to  his  utter  and  complete  shame 
and  mortification — but  that  was  all.  Nobody  laughed,  and 
Abner,  although  a  victim,  did  not  lose  his  good-humour. 
He  turned  quietly  on  his  tormentors  and  said — 

"I've  got  something  better  than   that — you   know  old 
manPhmkett?" 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  175 

Everybody  simultaneously  spat  at  the  stove  and  nodded 
his  head. 

"You  know  he  went  home  three  years  ago?"  Two  or 
three  changed  the  position  of  their  legs  from  the  backs  of 
different  chairs,  and  one  man  said  "Yes." 

"  Had  a  good  time  home  ?" 

Everybody  looked  cautiously  at  the  man  who  had  said 
"  Yes,"  and  he,  accepting  the  responsibility  with  a  faint- 
hearted smile,  said  "  Yes  "  again,  and  breathed  hard. 

"Saw  his  wife  and  child,  purty  gal?"  said  Abner  cautiously. 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  man  doggedly. 

"  Saw  her  photograph,  perhaps  ?  "  continued  Abner  Dean 
quietly. 

The  man  looked  hopelessly  around  for  support  Two  or 
three  who  had  been  sitting  near  him  and  evidently  encou- 
raging him  with  a  look  of  interest,  now  shamelessly  aban- 
doned him  and  looked  another  way.  Henry  York  flushed 
a  little  and  veiled  his  brown  eyes.  The  man  hesitated,  and 
then  with  a  sickly  smile  that  was  intended  to  convey 
the  fact  that  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  object  of  this 
questioning,  and  was  only  humouring  it  from  abstract  good 
feeling,  returned  "  Yes,"  again. 

"Sent  home — let's  see  —  ten  thousand  dollars,  wasn't 
it?"  Abner  Dean  went  on. 

"Yes,"  reiterated  the  man,  with  the  same  smile. 

"Well,  I  thought  so,"  said  Abner  quietly ;  "but  the  fact 
is,  you  see,  that  he  never  went  home  at  all — nary  time." 

Everybody  stared  at  Abner  in  genuine  surprise  and  inte- 
rest, as  with  provoking  calmness  and  a  half-lazy  manner  he 
went  on. 

"You  see,  thar  was  a  man  down  in  'Frisco  as  knowed 
him  and  saw  him  in  Sonora  during  the  whole  of  that  three 
years.  He  was  herding  sheep  or  tending  cattle,  or  spekilat- 
ing  all  that  time,  and  hadn't  a  red  cent.  Well,  it  'mounts  to 


1 76  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

this — that  'ar  Plunkett  ain't  been  east  of  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains since  '49." 

The  laugh  which  Abner  Dean  had  the  right  to  confidently 
expect  came,  but  it  was  bitter  and  sardonic.  I  think  indig- 
nation was  apparent  in  the  minds  of  his  hearers.  It  was 
felt,  for  the  first  time,  that  there  was  a  limit  to  practical 
joking.  A  deception  carried  on  for  a  year,  compromising 
the  sagacity  of  Monte  Flat,  was  deserving  the  severest  repro- 
bation. Of  course  nobody  had  believed  Plunkett ;  but  then 
the  supposition  that  it  might  be  believed  in  adjacent  camps 
that  they  had  believed  him  was  gall  and  bitterness.  The 
lawyer  thought  that  an  indictment  for  obtaining  money 
under  false  pretences  might  be  found,  the  physician  had 
long  suspected  him  of  insanity,  and  was  not  certain  but  that 
he  ought  to  be  confined.  The  four  prominent  merchants 
thought  that  the  business  interests  of  Monte  Flat  demanded 
that  something  should  be  done.  In  the  midst  of  an  excited 
and  angry  discussion  the  door  slowly  opened,  and  old  man 
Plunkett  staggered  into  the  room. 

He  had  changed  pitifully  in  the  last  six  months.  His  hair 
was  a  dusty  yellowish-gray,  like  the  chimisal  on  the  flanks 
of  Heavytree  Hill ;  his  face  was  waxen- white  and  blue  and 
puffy  under  the  eyes ;  his  clothes  were  soiled  and  shabby — 
streaked  in  front  with  the  stains  of  hurried  luncheons  eaten 
standing,  and  fluffy  behind  with  the  wool  and  hair  of  hurriedly 
extemporised  couches.  In  obedience  to  that  odd  law,  that 
the  more  seedy  and  soiled  a  man's  garments  become  the 
less  does  he  seem  inclined  to  part  with  them,  even  during 
that  portion  of  the  twenty-four  hours  when  they  are  deemed 
least  essential,  Plunkett's  clothes  had  gradually  taken  on 
the  appearance  of  a  kind  of  bark,  or  an  out-growth  from 
within,  for  which  their  possessor  was  not  entirely  responsible. 
Howbeit,  as  he  entered  the  room  he  attempted  to  button 
his  coat  over  a  dirty  shirt,  and  passed  his  fingers,  after  the 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  177 

manner  of  some  animal,  over  his  cracker-strewn  beard — in 
recognition  of  a  cleanly  public  sentiment.  But  even  as  he 
did  so  the  weak  smile  faded  from  his  lips,  and  his  hand, 
after  fumbling  aimlessly  around  a  button,  dropped  helplessly 
at  his  side.  For,  as  he  leaned  his  back  against  the  bar  and 
faced  the  group,  he  for  the  first  time  became  aware  that 
every  eye  but  one  was  fixed  upon  him.  His  quick,  nervous 
apprehension  at  once  leaped  to  the  truth.  His  miserable 
secret  was  out  and  abroad  in  the  very  air  about  him.  As  a 
last  resort,  he  glanced  despairingly  at  Henry  York,  but  his 
flushed  face  was  turned  toward  the  windows. 

No  word  was  spoken.  As  the  barkeeper  silently  swung 
a  decanter  and  glass  before  him,  he  took  a  cracker  from  a 
dish  and  mumbled  it  with  affected  unconcern.  He  lingered 
over  his  liquor,  until  its  potency  stiffened  his  relaxed  sinews 
and  dulled  the  nervous  edge  of  his  apprehension,  and  then 
he  suddenly  faced  around.  "  It  don't  look  as  if  we  were 
goin'  to  hev  any  rain  much  afore  Christmas,"  he  said  with 
defiant  ease. 

No  one  made  any  reply. 

"  Just  like  this  in  '5  2  and  again  in  '60.  It's  always  been 
my  opinion  that  these  dry  seasons  come  reg'lar.  I've  said 
it  afore.  I  say  it  again.  It's  jist  as  I  said  about  going  home, 
you  know,"  he  added  with  desperate  recklessness. 

"Thar's  a  man,"  said  Abner  Dean  lazily,  "ez  sez  you 
never  went  home.  Thar's  a  man  ez  sez  you've  been  three 
years  in  Sonora.  Thar's  a  man  ez  sez  you  haint  seen  your 
wife  and  daughter  since  '49.  Thar's  a  man  ez  sez  you've 
been  playin'  this  camp  for  six  months." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  a  voice  said,  quite  as 
quietly — 

"That  man  lies." 

It  was  not  the  old  man's  voice.  Everybody  turned  as 
Henry  York  slowly  rose,  stretching  out  his  six  feet  of  length, 

VOL.  III.  M 


178  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

and,  brushing  away  the  ashes  that  had  fallen  from  his  pipe 
upon  his  breast,  deliberately  placed  himself  beside  Plunkett, 
and  faced  the  others. 

"  That  man  ain't  here,"  continued  Abner  Dean  with  list- 
less indifference  of  voice  and  a  gentle  preoccupation  of 
manner,  as  he  carelessly  allowed  his  right  hand  to  rest  on 
his  hip  near  his  revolver.  "  That  man  ain't  here,  but  if  I'm 
called  upon  to  make  good  what  he  says,  why,  I'm  on  hand." 

All  rose  as  the  two  men — perhaps  the  least  externally 
agitated  of  them  all —  approached  each  other.  The  lawyer 
stepped  in  between  them. 

"Perhaps  there's  some  mistake  here.  York,  do  you 
know  that  the  old  man  has  been  home  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  do  you  know  it?" 

York  turned  his  clear,  honest,  frank  eyes  on  his  questioner, 
and  without  a  tremor  told  the  only  direct  and  unmitigated 
lie  of  his  life.  "  Because  I've  seen  him  there." 

The  answer  was  conclusive.  It  was  known  that  York 
had  been  visiting  the  East  during  the  old  man's  absence. 
The  colloquy  had  diverted  attention  from  Plunkett,  who, 
pale  and  breathless,  was  staring  at  his  unexpected  deliverer. 
As  he  turned  again  toward  his  tormentors,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  expression  of  his  eye  that  caused  those  that 
were  nearest  to  him  to  fall  back,  and  sent  a  strange,  indefin- 
able thrill  through  the  boldest  and  most  reckless.  As  he 
made  a  step  forward  the  physician  almost  unconsciously 
raised  his  hand  with  a  warning  gesture,  and  old  man  Plunkett, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  redhot  stove,  and  an  odd 
smile  playing  about  his  mouth,  began — 

"Yes — of  course- you  did.  Who  says  you  didn't?  It 
ain't  no  lie ;  I  said  I  was  goin'  home,  and  I've  been  home. 
Haven't  I  ?  My  God  !  I  have.  Who  says  I've  been  lyin'  ? 
Who  says  I'm  dreamin'  ?  Is  it  true — why  don't  you  speak  ? 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  1 79 

It  is  true,  after  all.  You  say  you  saw  me  there,  why  don't 
you  speak  again  ?  Say  !  Say  ! — is  it  true  ?  It's  going  now, 
O  my  God — it's  going  again.  It's  going  now.  Save  me  ! " 
and  with  a  fierce  cry  he  fell  forward  in  a  fit  upon  the  floor. 

When  the  old  man  regained  his  senses  he  found  himself 
in  York's  cabin.  A  flickering  fire  of  pine  boughs  lit  up  the 
rude  rafters,  and  fell  upon  a  photograph  tastefully  framed 
with  fir-cones  and  hung  above  the  brush  whereon  he  lay. 
It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young  girl.  It  was  the  first  object 
to  meet  the  old  man's  gaze,  and  it  brought  with  it  a  flush 
of  such  painful  consciousness  that  he  started  and  glanced 
quickly  around.  But  his  eyes  only  encountered  those  of 
York — clear,  brown,  critical  and  patient,  and  they  fell  again. 

"  Tell  me,  old  man,"  said  York,  not  unkindly,  but  with 
the  same  cold,  clear  tone  in  his  voice  that  his  eye  betrayed 
a  moment  ago,  "  tell  me,  is  that  a  lie  too  ?  "  and  he  pointed 
to  the  picture. 

The  old  man  closed  his  eyes  and  did  not  reply.  Two 
hours  before  the  question  would  have  stung  him  into  some 
evasion  or  bravado.  But  the  revelation  contained  in  the 
question,  as  well  as  the  tone  of  York's  voice,  was  to  him 
now,  in  his  pitiable  condition,  a  relief.  It  was  plain  even 
to  his  confused  brain  that  York  had  lied  when  he  had 
endorsed  his  story  in  the  bar-room — it  was  clear  to  him 
now  that  he  had  not  been  home — that  he  was  not,  as  he 
had  begun  to  fear,  going  mad.  It  was  such  a  relief  that, 
with  characteristic  weakness,  his  former  recklessness  and 
extravagance  returned.  He  began  to  chuckle — finally,  to 
laugh  uproariously. 

York,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  old  man,  withdrew 
the  hand  with  which  he  had  taken  his. 

"  Didn't  we  fool  'em  nicely,  eh,  Yorky  ?  He  !  he  !  The 
biggest  thing  yet  ever  played  in  this  camp !  I  always  said 
I'd  play  'em  all  some  day,  and  I  have — played  'em  for  six 


180  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

months.  Ain't  it  rich — ain't  it  the  richest  thing  you  ever 
seed  ?  Did  you  see  Abner's  face  when  he  spoke  'bout  that 
man  as  seed  me  in  Sonora  ? — warn't  it  good  as  the  min- 
strels ?  Oh,  it's  too  much  ! "  and  striking  his  leg  with  the 
palm  of  his  hand,  he  almost  threw  himself  from  the  bed  in 
a  paroxysm  of  laughter — a  paroxysm  that,  nevertheless, 
appeared  to  be  half  real  and  half  affected. 

"  Is  that  photograph  hers  ?  "  said  York  in  a  low  voice, 
after  a  slight  pause. 

"  Hers  ?  No  !  It's  one  of  the  San  Francisco  actresses, 
he  !  he  !  Don't  you  see — I  bought  it  for  two  bits  in  one  of 
the  book-stores.  I  never  thought  they'd  swaller  that  too  ! 
but  they  did !  Oh,  but  the  old  man  played  'em  this  time, 
didn't  he — eh  ?  "  and  he  peered  curiously  in  York's  face. 

"  Yes,  and  he  played  me  too,"  said  York,  looking  steadily 
in  the  old  man's  eye. 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  interposed  Plunkett  hastily,  "  but  you 
know,  Yorky,  you  got  out  of  it  well  !  You've  sold  'em  too. 
We've  both  got  'em  on  a  string  now — you  and  me — got  to 
stick  together  now.  You  did  it  well,  Yorky,  you  did  it  well. 
Why,  when  you  said  you'd  seen  me  in  York  city,  I'm  d — d 
if  I  didn't  " 

"  Didn't  what  ? "  said  York  gently,  for  the  old  man  had 
stopped  with  a  pale  face  and  wandering  eye. 

"Eh?" 

"You  say  when  I  said  I  had  seen  you  in  New  York  you 
thought  " 

"  You  lie  ! "  said  the  old  man  fiercely,  "  I  didn't  say  I 
thought  anything.  What  are  you  trying  to  go  back  on  me 
for  ?  Eh  ?  "  His  hands  were  trembling  as  he  rose,  mutter- 
ing, from  the  bed  and  made  his  way  toward  the  hearth. 

"  Gimme  some  whisky,"  he  said  presently,  "  and  dry  up, 
You  onghter  treat,  anyway.  Them  fellows  oughter  treated 
last  night  By  hookey,  I'd  made  'em — only  I  fell  sick." 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  181 

York  placed  the  liquor  and  a  tin  cup  on  the  table  beside 
him,  and  going  to  the  door  turned  his  back  upon  his  guest 
and  looked  out  on  the  night.  Although  it  was  clear  moon- 
light the  familiar  prospect  never  to  him  seemed  so  dreary. 
The  dead  waste  of  the  broad  Wingdam  highway  never 
seemed  so  monotonous — so  like  the  days  that  he  had  passed 
and  were  to  come  to  him — so  like  the  old  man  in  its 
suggestion  of  going  somewhere  and  never  getting  there.  He 
turned,  and  going  up  to  Plunkett  put  his  hand  upon  his 
shoulder  and  said — 

"  I  want  you  to  answer  one  question  fairly  and 
squarely." 

The  liquor  seemed  to  have  warmed  the  torpid  blood  in 
the  old  man's  veins  and  softened  his  acerbity,  for  the  face 
he  turned  up  to  York  was  mellowed  in  its  rugged  outline 
and  more  thoughtful  in  expression  as  he  said — 

"Go  on,  my  boy." 

"  Have  you  a  wife  and — daughter  ?  " 

"  Before  God,  I  have  ! " 

The  two  men  were  silent  for  a  moment,  both  gazing  at 
the  fire.  Then  Plunkett  began  rubbing  his  knees  slowly. 

"  The  wife,  if  it  comes  to  that,  ain't  much,"  he  began 
cautiously,  "  being  a  little  on  the  shoulder,  you  know,  and 
wantin',  so  to  speak,  a  liberal  California  education — which 
makes,  you  know,  a  bad  combination.  It's  always  been 
my  opinion  that  there  ain't  any  worse.  Why,  she's  as  ready 
with  her  tongue  as  Abner  Dean  is  with  his  revolver,  only 
with  the  difference  that  she  shoots  from  principle,  as  she 
calls  it,  and  the  consequence  is  she's  always  layin'  for  you. 
It's  the  effete  East,  my  boy,  that's  ruinin'  her ;  it's  them 
ideas  she  gets  in  New  York  and  Boston  that's  made  her 
and  me  what  we  are.  I  don't  mind  her  havin'  'em  if  she 
didn't  shoot.  But  havin'  that  propensity,  them  principles 
oughtn't  to  be  lying  round  loose  no  more'n  firearms." 


1 82  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

"  But  your  daughter  ?  "  said  York. 

The  old  man's  hands  went  up  to  his  eyes  here,  and  then 
both  hands  and  head  dropped  forward  on  the  table.  "Don't 
say  anything  'bout  her,  my  boy,  don't  ask  me  now."  With 
one  hand  concealing  his  eyes  he  fumbled  about  with  the 
other  in  his  pockets  for  his  handkerchief — but  vainly. 
Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  this  fact  that  he  repressed  his  tears, 
for  when  he  removed  his  hand  from  his  eyes  they  were 
quite  dry.  Then  he  found  his  voice. 

"  She's  a  beautiful  girl,  beautiful,  though  I  say  it — and 
you  shall  see  her,  my  boy,  you  shall  see  her,  sure.  I've  got 
things  about  fixed  now.  I  shall  have  my  plan  for  reducin' 
ores  perfected  in  a  day  or  two,  and  I've  got  proposals  from 
all  the  smeltin'  works  here " — here  he  hastily  produced  a 
bundle  of  papers  that  fell  upon  the  floor — "  and  I'm  goin'  to 
send  for  'em.  I've  got  the  papers  here  as  will  give  me  ten 
thousand  dollars  clear  in  the  next  month,"  he  added,  as  he 
strove  to  collect  the  valuable  documents  again.  "  I'll  have 
'em  here  by  Christmas,  if  I  live,  and  you  shall  eat  your 
Christmas  dinner  with  me,  York,  my  boy — you  shall, 
sure." 

With  his  tongue  now  fairly  loosened  by  liquor  and  the 
suggestive  vastness  of  his  prospects,  he  rambled  on  more 
or  less  incoherently,  elaborating  and  amplifying  his  plans — 
occasionally  even  speaking  of  them  as  already  accomplished, 
until  the  moon  rode  high  in  the  heavens,  and  York  led  him 
again  to  his  couch.  Here  he  lay  for  some  time  muttering 
to  himself,  until  at  last  he  sank  into  a  heavy  sleep.  When 
York  had  satisfied  himself  of  the  fact,  he  gently  took  down 
the  picture  and  frame,  and,  going  to  the  hearth,  tossed 
them  on  the  dying  embers,  and  sat  down  to  see  them  burn. 

The  fir-cones  leaped  instantly  into  flame;  then  the 
features  that  had  entranced  San  Francisco  audiences  nightly 
flashed  up  and  passed  away — as  such  things  are  apt  to 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  183 

pass — and  even  the  cynical  smile  on  York's  lips  faded  too. 
And  then  there  came  a  supplemental  and  unexpected  flash 
as  the  embers  fell  together,  and  by  its  light  York  saw  a 
paper  upon  the  floor.  It  was  one  that  had  fallen  from  the 
old  man's  pocket.  As  he  picked  it  up  listlessly  a  photo- 
graph slipped  from  its  folds.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young 
girl,  and  on  its  reverse  was  written,  in  a  scrawling  hand, 
"  Melinda  to  Father." 

It  was  at  best  a  cheap  picture,  but,  ah  me  !  I  fear  even 
the  deft  graciousness  of  the  highest  art  could  not  have 
softened  the  rigid  angularities  of  that  youthful  figure,  its 
self-complacent  vulgarity,  its  cheap  finery,  its  expressionless 
ill-favour.  York  did  not  look  at  it  the  second  time.  He 
turned  to  the  letter  for  relief. 

It  was  misspelled,  it  was  unpunctuated,  it  was  almost 
illegible,  it  was  fretful  in  tone  and  selfish  in  sentiment  It 
was  not,  I  fear,  even  original  in  the  story  of  its  woes.  It 
was  the  harsh  recital  of  poverty,  of  suspicion,  of  mean 
makeshifts  and  compromises,  of  low  pains  and  lower  long- 
ings, of  sorrows  that  were  degrading,  of  a  grief  that  was 
pitiable.  Yet  it  was  sincere  in  a  certain  kind  of  vague 
yearning  for  the  presence  of  the  degraded  man  to  whom  it 
was  written — an  affection  that  was  more  like  a  confused 
instinct  than  a  sentiment. 

York  folded  it  again  carefully,  and  placed  it  beneath  the 
old  man's  pillow.  Then  he  returned  to  his  seat  by  the  fire. 
A  smile  that  had  been  playing  upon  his  face,  deepening 
the  curves  behind  his  moustache  and  gradually  overrunning 
his  clear  brown  eyes,  presently  faded  away.  It  was  last  to 
go  from  his  eyes,  and  it  left  there — oddly  enough  to  those 
who  did  not  know  him — a  tear. 

He  sat  there  for  a  long  time,  leaning  forward,  his  head 
upon  his  hands.  The  wind  that  had  been  striving  with  the 
canvas  roof  all  at  once  lifted  its  edges  and  a  moonbeam 


184  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

slipped  suddenly  in,  and  lay  for  a  moment  like  a  shining 
blade  upon  his  shoulder.  And  knighted  by  its  touch, 
straightway  plain  Henry  York  arose  —  sustained,  high- 
purposed  and  self-reliant  ! 

The  rains  had  come  at  last.  There  was  already  a  visible 
greenness  on  the  slopes  of  Heavy  tree  Hill,  and  the  long 
white  track  of  the  Wingdam  road  was  lost  in  outlying  pools 
and  ponds  a  hundred  rods  from  Monte  Flat.  The  spent 
water-courses,  whose  white  bones  had  been  sinuously  trailed 
over  the  flat,  like  the  vertebrae  of  some  forgotten  Saurian, 
were  full  again ;  the  dry  bones  moved  once  more  in  the 
valley,  and  there  was  joy  in  the  ditches,  and  a  pardonable 
extravagance  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Monte  Flat  Monitor." 
"  Never  before  in  the  history  of  the  county  has  the  yield 
been  so  satisfactory.  Our  contemporary  of  the  *  Hillside 
Beacon/  who  yesterday  facetiously  alluded  to  the  fact  (?) 
that  our  best  citizens  were  leaving  town,  in  *  dug  outs/  on 
account  of  the  flood,  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  our  distin- 
guished fellow-townsman,  Mr.  Henry  York,  now  on  a  visit 
to  his  relatives  in  the  East,  lately  took  with  him,  in  his 
'dug-out/  the  modest  sum  of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  the 
result  of  one  week's  clean-up.  We  can  imagine,"  con- 
tinued that  sprightly  journal,  "  that  no  such  misfortune  is 
likely  to  overtake  Hillside  this  season.  And  yet  we  believe 
the  '  Beacon '  man  wants  a  railroad."  A  few  journals  broke 
out  into  poetry.  The  operator  at  Simpson's  Crossing 
telegraphed  to  the  Sacramento  "  Universe :  "  "  All  day  the 
low  clouds  have  shook  their  garnered  fulness  down."  A 
San  Francisco  journal  lapsed  into  noble  verse,  thinly 
disguised  as  editorial  prose  :  "Rejoice,  the  gentle  rain  has 
come,  the  bright  and  pearly  rain,  which  scatters  blessings 
on  the  hills,  and  sifts  them  o'er  the  plain.  Rejoice,"  etc. 
Indeed,  there  was  only  one  to  whom  the  rain  had  not 
brought  blessing,  and  that  was  Plunkett.  In  some  mysterious 


A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral.  185 

and  darksome  way,  it  had  interfered  with  the  perfection 
of  his  new  method  of  reducing  ores,  and  thrown  the  advent 
of  that  invention  back  another  season.  It  had  brought  him 
down  to  an  habitual  seat  in  the  bar-room,  where,  to  heedless 
and  inattentive  ears,  he  sat  and  discoursed  of  the  East  and 
his  family. 

No  one  disturbed  him.  Indeed,  it  was  rumoured  that 
some  funds  had  been  lodged  with  the  landlord,  by  a  person 
or  persons  unknown,  whereby  his  few  wants  were  provided 
for.  His  mania — for  that  was  the  charitable  construction 
which  Monte  Flat  put  upon  his  conduct— was  indulged, 
even  to  the  extent  of  Monte  Flat's  accepting  his  invitation 
to  dine  with  his  family  on  Christmas  Day — an  invitation 
extended  frankly  to  every  one  with  whom  the  old  man  drank 
or  talked.  But  one  day,  to  everybody's  astonishment,  he 
burst  into  the  bar-room,  holding  an  open  letter  in  his  hand. 
It  read  as  follows  : — 

"  Be  ready  to  meet  your  family  at  the  new  cottage  on 
Heavytree  Hill  on  Christmas  Day.  Invite  what  friends  you 
choose.  HENRY  YORK." 

The  letter  was  handed  round  in  silence.  The  old  man, 
with  a  look  alternating  between  hope  and  fear,  gazed  in  the 
faces  of  the  group.  The  Doctor  looked  up  significantly, 
after  a  pause.  "  It's  a  forgery,  evidently,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice ;  "  he's  cunning  enough  to  conceive  it — they 
always  are — but  you'll  find  he'll  fail  in  executing  it.  Watch 
his  face  !  Old  man,"  he  said  suddenly,  in  a  loud,  per- 
emptory tone,  "  this  is  a  trick — a  forgery — and  you  know  it. 
Answer  me  squarely,  and  look  me  in  the  eye.  Isn't  it  so?" 

The  eyes  of  Plunkett  stared  a  moment,  and  then  dropped 
weakly.  Then,  with  a  feebler  smile,  he  said,  "You're  too 
many  for  me,  boys.  The  Doc's  right  The  little  game's 
up.  You  can  take  the  old  man's  hat,"  and  so,  tottering, 


1 86  A  Monte  Flat  Pastoral. 

trembling,  and  chuckling,  he  dropped  into  silence  and  his 
accustomed  seat.  But  the  next  day  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten this  episode,  and  talked  as  glibly  as  ever  of  the 
approaching  festivity. 

And  so  the  days  and  weeks  passed  until  Christmas — a 
bright,  clear  day,  wanned  with  south  winds,  and  joyous  with 
the  resurrection  of  springing  grasses — broke  upon  Monte 
Flat.  And  then  there  was  a  sudden  commotion  in  the 
hotel  bar-room,  and  Abner  Dean  stood  beside  the  old 
man's  chair,  and  shook  him  out  of  a  slumber  to  his  feet 
"  Rouse  up,  old  man !  York  is  here,  with  your  wife  and 
daughter  at  the  cottage  on  Heavytree.  Come,  old  man. 
Here,  boys,  give  him  a  lift,"  and  in  another  moment  a 
dozen  strong  and  willing  hands  had  raised  the  old  man,  and 
bore  him  in  triumph  to  the  street,  up  the  steep  grade  of 
Heavytree  Hill,  and  deposited  him,  struggling  and  confused, 
in  the  porch  of  a  little  cottage.  At  the  same  instant,  two 
women  rushed  forward,  but  were  restrained  by  a  gesture 
from  Henry  York.  The  old  man  was  struggling  to  his  feet. 
With  an  effort,  at  last,  he  stood  erect,  trembling,  his  eye 
fixed,  a  gray  pallor  on  his  cheek,  and  a  deep  resonance  in 
his  voice. 

"  It's  all  a  trick,  and  a  lie  !  They  ain't  no  flesh  and 
blood  or  kin  o'  mine.  It  ain't  my  wife,  nor  child.  My 
daughter's  a  beautiful  girl — a  beautiful  girl — d'ye  hear? 
She's  in  New  York,  with  her  mother,  and  I'm  going  to  fetch 
her  here.  I  said  I'd  go  home,  and  I've  been  home — d'ye 
hear  me  ? — I've  been  home  !  It's  a  mean  trick  you're 
playin'  on  the  old  man.  Let  me  go,  d'ye  hear  ?  Keep  them 
women  off  me!  Let  me  go!  I'm  going — I'm  going  home!" 

His  hands  were  thrown  up  convulsively  in  the  air,  and, 
half  turning  round,  he  fell  sideways  on  the  porch,  and  so  to 
the  ground.  They  picked  him  up  hurriedly ;  but  too  late. 
He  had  gone  home. 


©gltiester. 


IT  was  at  a  little  mining  camp  in  the  California  Sierras 
that  he  first  dawned  upon  me  in  all  his  grotesque  sweet- 
ness. 

I  had  arrived  early  in  the  morning,  but  not  in  time  to 
intercept  the  friend  who  was  the  object  of  my  visit.  He 
had  gone  "  prospecting  " — so  they  told  me  on  the  river — 
and  would  not  probably  return  until  late  in  the  afternoon. 
They  could  not  say  what  direction  he  had  taken ;  they  could 
not  suggest  that  I  would  be  likely  to  find  him  if  I  followed. 
But  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  I  had  better  wait. 

I  looked  around  me.  I  was  standing  upon  the  bank  of 
the  river ;  and,  apparently,  the  only  other  human  beings  in 
the  world  were  my  interlocutors,  who  were  even  then  just 
disappearing  from  my  horizon  down  the  steep  bank  toward 
the  river's  dry  bed.  I  approached  the  edge  of  the  bank. 

Where  could  I  wait  ? 

Oh,  anywhere ;  down  with  them  on  the  river-bar,  where 
they  were  working,  if  I  liked  !  Or  I  could  make  myself  at 
home  in  any  of  those  cabins  that  I  found  lying  round  loose. 
Or,  perhaps  it  would  be  cooler  and  pleasanter  for  me  in  my 
friend's  cabin  on  the  hill.  Did  1  see  those  three  large  sugar- 
pines  ?  And,  a  little  to  the  right,  a  canvas  roof  and  chimney 
over  the  bushes?  Well,  that  was  my  friend's — that  was 
Dick  Sylvester's  cabin.  I  could  stake  my  horse  in  that  little 
hollow,  and  just  hang  round  there  till  he  came.  I  would 


1 88  Baby  Sylvester. 

find  some  books  in  the  shanty ;  I  could  amuse  myself  with 
them.  Or  I  could  play  with  the  baby. 

Do  what  ? 

But  they  had  already  gone.  I  leaned  over  the  bank  and 
called  after  their  vanishing  figures — 

"  What  did  you  say  I  could  do  ?" 

The  answer  floated  slowly  up  on  the  hot,  sluggish  air — 

"  Pla-a-y  with  the  ba-by." 

The  lazy  echoes  took  it  up  and  tossed  it  languidly  from 
hill  to  hill,  until  Bald  Mountain  opposite  made  some  inco- 
herent remark  about  the  baby,  and  then  all  was  still. 

I  must  have  been  mistaken.  My  friend  was  not  a  man 
of  family ;  there  was  not  a  woman  within  forty  miles  of  the 
river  camp ;  he  never  was  so  passionately  devoted  to  chil- 
dren as  to  import  a  luxury  so  expensive.  I  must  have  been 
mistaken. 

I  turned  my  horse's  head  toward  the  hill.  As  we  slowly 
climbed  the  narrow  trail,  the  little  settlement  might  have 
been  some  exhumed  Pompeian  suburb,  so  deserted  and 
silent  were  its  habitations.  The  open  doors  plainly  disclosed 
each  rudely-furnished  interior — the  rough  pine  table,  with 
the  scant  equipage  of  the  morning  meal  still  standing ;  the 
wooden  bunk,  with  its  tumbled  and  dishevelled  blankets. 
A  golden  lizard — the  very  genius  of  desolate  stillness — had 
stopped  breathless  upon  the  threshold  of  one  cabin;  a 
squirrel  peeped  impudently  into  the  window  of  another ;  a 
woodpecker,  with  the  general  flavour  of  undertaking  which 
distinguishes  that  bird,  withheld  his  sepulchral  hammer 
from  the  coffin-lid  of  the  roof  on  which  he  was  profes- 
sionally engaged,  as  we  passed.  For  a  moment,  I  half- 
regretted  that  I  had  not  accepted  the  invitation  to  the  river- 
bed ;  but,  the  next  moment,  a  breeze  swept  up  the  long, 
dark  canon,  and  the  waiting  files  of  the  pines  beyond  bent 
toward  me  in  salutation.  I  think  my  horse  understood  as 


Baby  Sylvester.  189 

well  as  myself  that  it  was  the  cabins  that  made  the  solitude 
human,  and  therefore  unbearable,  for  he  quickened  his 
pace,  and  with  a  gentle  trot  brought  me  to  the  edge  of  the 
wood  and  the  three  pines  that  stood  like  videttes  before  the 
Sylvester  outpost. 

Unsaddling  my  horse  in  the  little  hollow,  I  unslung  the 
long  riata  from  the  saddlebow,  and  tethering  him  to  a  young 
sapling,  turned  toward  the  cabin.  But  I  had  gone  only  a 
few  steps  when  I  heard  a  quick  trot  behind  me,  and  poor 
Pomposo,  with  every  fibre  tingling  with  fear,  was  at  my  heels. 
I  looked  hurriedly  around.  The  breeze  had  died  away,  and 
only  an  occasional  breath  from  the  deep-chested  woods, 
more  like  a  long  sigh  than  any  articulate  sound,  or  the  dry 
singing  of  a  cicala  in  the  heated  canon,  were  to  be  heard. 
I  examined  the  ground  carefully  for  rattlesnakes,  but  in  vain. 
Yet  here  was  Pomposo  shivering  from  his  arched  neck  to 
his  sensitive  haunches,  his  very  flanks  pulsating  with  terror. 
I  soothed  him  as  well  as  I  could,  and  then  walked  to  the 
edge  of  the  wood  and  peered  into  its  dark  recesses.  The 
bright  flash  of  a  bird's  wing,  or  the  quick  dart  of  a  squirrel, 
was  all  I  saw.  I  confess  it  was  with  something  of  super- 
stitious expectation  that  I  again  turned  toward  the  cabin. 
A-  fairy  child,  attended  by  Titania  and  her  train,  lying  in  an 
expensive  cradle,  would  not  have  surprised  me ;  a  Sleeping 
Beauty,  whose  awakening  would  have  repeopled  these 
solitudes  with  life  and  energy,  I  am  afraid  I  began  to  con- 
fidently look  for,  and  would  have  kissed  without  hesitation. 

But  I  found  none  of  these.  Here  was  the  evidence  of 
my  friend's  taste  and  refinement  in  the  hearth  swept  scru- 
pulously clean,  in  the  picturesque  arrangement  of  the  fur 
skins  that  covered  the  floor  and  furniture,  and  the  scrape* 
lying  on  the  wooden  couch.  Here  were  the  walls  fanci- 
fully papered  with  illustrations  from  the  "London  News;" 

*  A  fine  Mexican  blanket,  used  as  an  outer  garment  for  riding. 


190  Baby  Sylvester. 

here  was  the  wood-cut  portrait  of  Mr.  Emerson  over  the 
chimney,  quaintly  framed  with  blue  jays'  wings ;  here  were 
his  few  favourite  books  on  the  swinging  shelf ;  and  here,  lying 
upon  the  couch,  the  latest  copy  of  "Punch."  Dear  DickJ. 
The  flour-sack  was  sometimes  empty,  but  the  gentle  satirist 
seldom  missed  his  weekly  visit. 

I  threw  myself  on  the  couch  and  tried  to  read.  But  I 
soon  exhausted  my  interest  in  my  friend's  library,  and  lay 
there  staring  through  the  open  door  on  the  green  hillside 
beyond.  The  breeze  again  sprang  up,  and  a  delicious 
coolness,  mixed  with  the  rare  incense  of  the  woods,  stole 
through  the  cabin.  The  slumbrous  droning  of  bumble-bees 
outside  the  canvas  roof,  the  faint  cawing  of  rooks  on  the 
opposite  mountain,  and  the  fatigue  of  my  morning  ride, 
began  to  droop  my  eyelids.  I  pulled  the  serdpe  over  me 
as  a  precaution  against  the  freshening  mountain  breeze,  and 
in  a  few  moments  was  asleep. 

I  do  not  remember  how  long  I  slept.  I  must  have  been 
conscious,  however,  during  my  slumber,  of  my  inability  to 
keep  myself  covered  by  the  scrape,  for  I  awoke  once  or  twice 
clutching  it  with  a  despairing  hand  as  it  was  disappearing 
over  the  foot  of  the  couch.  Then  I  became  suddenly 
aroused  to  the  fact  that  my  efforts  to  retain  it  were  resisted 
by  some  equally  persistent  force,  and  letting  it  go,  I  was 
horrified  at  seeing  it  swiftly  drawn  under  the  couch.  At 
this  point  I  sat  up  completely  awake  ;  for  immediately  after, 
what  seemed  to  be  an  exaggerated  muff  began  to  emerge 
from  under  the  couch.  Presently  it  appeared  fully, 
dragging  the  serdpe  after  it.  There  was  no  mistaking  it 
now — it  was  a  baby  bear.  A  mere  suckling,  it  was  true — 
a  helpless  roll  of  fat  and  fur — but  unmistakably,  a  grizzly 
cub ! 

I  cannot  recall  anything  more  irresistibly  ludicrous  than 
its  aspect  as  it  slowly  raised  its  small  wondering  eyes  to 


Baby  Sylvester.  191 

mine.  It  was  so  much  taller  in  its  haunches  than  its 
shoulders — its  fore-legs  were  so  disproportionately  small — 
that  in  walking  its  hind-feet  invariably  took  precedence.  It 
was  perpetually  pitching  forward  over  its  pointed,  inoffensive 
nose,  and  recovering  itself  always,  after  these  involuntary 
somersaults,  with  the  gravest  astonishment.  To  add  to  its 
preposterous  appearance,  one  of  its  hind-feet  was  adorned 
by  a  shoe  of  Sylvester's,  into  which  it  had  accidentally  and 
inextricably  stepped.  As  this  somewhat  impeded  its  first 
impulse  to  fly,  it  turned  to  me ;  and  then,  possibly  recog- 
nising in  the  stranger  the  same  species  as  its  master,  it 
paused.  Presently,  it  slowly  raised  itself  on  its  hind-legs, 
and  vaguely  and  deprecatingly  waved  a  baby  paw,  fringed 
with  little  hooks  of  steel.  I  took  the  paw  and  shook  it 
gravely.  From  that  moment  we  were  friends.  The  little 
affair  of  the  serape  was  forgotten. 

Nevertheless,  I  was  wise  enough  to  cement  our  friendship 
by  an  act  of  delicate  courtesy.  Following  the  direction  of 
his  eyes,  I  had  no  difficulty  in  finding,  on  a  shelf  near  the 
ridge-pole,  the  sugarbox  and  the  square  lumps  of  white 
sugar  that  even  the  poorest  miner  is  never  without.  While 
he  was  eating  them  I  had  time  to  examine  him  more  closely. 
His  body  was  a  silky,  dark,  but  exquisitely  modulated  grey, 
deepening  to  black  in  his  paws  and  muzzle.  His  fur  was 
excessively  long,  thick,  and  soft  as  eider  down,  the  cushions 
of  flesh  beneath  perfectly  infantine  in  their  texture  and  con- 
tour. He  was  so  very  young  that  the  palms  of  his  half- 
human  feet  were  still  tender  as  a  baby's.  Except  for  the 
bright  blue,  steely  hooks,  half-sheathed  in  his  little  toes, 
there  was  not  a  single  harsh  outline  or  detail  in  his  plump 
figure.  He  was  as  free  from  angles  as  one  of  Leda's  off- 
spring. Your  caressing  hand  sank  away  in  his  fur  with 
dreamy  languor.  To  look  at  him  long  was  an  intoxica- 
tion of  the  senses;  to  pat  him  was  a  wild  delirium;  to 


1 92  Baby  Sylvester. 

embrace   him,  an  utter  demoralisation  of  the  intellectual 
faculties. 

;n  he  had  finished  the  sugar  he  rolled  out  of  the  door 
with  a  half-diffident,  half-inviting  look  in  his  eye,  as  if  he 
expected  me  to  follow.  I  did  so,  but  the  sniffing  and 
snorting  of  the  keen-scented  Pomposo  in  the  hollow,  not 
only  revealed  the  cause  of  his  former  terror,  but  decided  me 
to  take  another  direction.  After  a  moment's  hesitation  he 
concluded  to  go  with  me,  although  I  am  satisfied,  from  a 
certain  impish  look  in  his  eye,  that  he  fully  understood  and 
rather  enjoyed  the  fright  of  Pomposo.  As  he  rolled  along 
at  my  side,  with  a  gait  not  unlike  a  drunken  sailor,  I  dis- 
covered that  his  long  hair  concealed  a  leather  collar  around 
his  neck,  which  bore  for  its  legend  the  single  word,  "  Baby ! " 
I  recalled  the  mysterious  suggestion  of  the  two  miners. 
This,  then,  was  the  "  baby  "  with  whom  I  was  to  "  play." 

How  we  "  played ; "  how  Baby  allowed  me  to  roll  him 
down  hill,  crawling  and  puffing  up  again  each  time,  with 
perfect  good  humour ;  how  he  climbed  a  young  sapling 
after  my  Panama  hat,  which  I  had  "shied"  into  one  of  the 
topmost  branches;  how  after  getting  it  he  refused  to  de- 
scend until  it  suited  his  pleasure ;  how  when  he  did  come 
down  he  persisted  in  walking  about  on  three  legs,  carrying 
my  hat,  a  crushed  and  shapeless  mass,  clasped  to  his 
breast  with  the  remaining  one ;  how  I  missed  him  at  last, 
and  finally  discovered  him  seated  on  a  table  in  one  of  the 
tenantless  cabins,  with  a  bottle  of  syrup  between  his  paws, 
vainly  endeavouring  to  extract  its  contents — these  and 
other  details  of  that  eventful  day  I  shall  not  weary  the 
reader  with  now.  Enough,  that  when  Dick  Sylvester  re- 
turned, I  was  pretty  well  fagged  out,  and  the  baby  was  rolled 
up,  an  immense  bolster  at  the  foot  of  the  couch,  asleep, 
Sylvester's  first  words  after  our  greeting  were — 

"Isn't  he  delicious?" 


Baby  Sylvester.  193 

"  Perfectly.     Where  did  you  get  him  ?  " 

"Lying  under  his  dead  mother,  five  miles  from  here," 
said  Dick,  lighting  his  pipe.  "  Knocked  her  over  at  fifty 
yards ;  perfectly  clean  shot  —  never  moved  afterwards  ! 
Baby  crawled  out,  scared  but  unhurt.  She  must  have  been 
carrying  him  in  her  mouth,  and  dropped  him  when  she 
faced  me,  for  he  wasn't  more  than  three  days  old,  and  not 
steady  on  his  pins.  He  takes  the  only  milk  that  comes  to 
the  settlement — brought  up  by  Adams  Express  at  seven 
o'clock  every  morning.  They  say  he  looks  like  me.  Do 
you  think  so  ?  "  asked  Dick,  with  perfect  gravity,  stroking 
his  hay-coloured  moustachios,  and  evidently  assuming  his 
best  expression. 

I  took  leave  of  the  baby  early  the  next  morning  in 
Sylvester's  cabin,  and,  out  of  respect  for  Pomposo's  feelings, 
rode  by  without  any  postscript  of  expression.  But  the  night 
before  I  had  made  Sylvester  solemnly  swear  that,  in  the  event 
of  any  separation  between  himself  and  Baby,  it  should  re- 
vert to  me.  "  At  the  same  time,"  he  had  added,  "  it's  only 
fair  to  say  that  I  don't  think  of  dying  just  yet,  old  fellow, 
and  I  don't  know  of  anything  else  that  would  part  the  cub 
and  me." 

Two  months  after  this  conversation,  as  I  was  turning 
over  the  morning's  mail  at  my  office  in  San  Francisco,  I 
noticed  a  letter  bearing  Sylvester's  familiar  hand.  But  it 
was  post-marked  "  Stockton,"  and  I  opened  it  with  some 
anxiety  at  once.  Its  contents  were  as  follows : — 

"  O  Frank  !  Don't  you  remember  what  we  agreed  upon 
anent  the  baby  ?  Well,  consider  me  as  dead  for  the  next 
six  months,  or  gone  where  cubs  can't  follow  me — East.  I 
know  you  love  the  baby;  but  do  you  think,  dear  boy — 
now,  really,  do  you  think  you  could  be  a  father  to  it? 
Consider  this  well.  You  are  young,  thoughtless,  well-mean- 

VOL.  III.  N 


194  Baby  Sylvester. 

ing  enough ;  but  dare  you  take  upon  yourself  the  functions 
of  guide,  genius,  or  guardian  to  one  so  young  and  guileless  ? 
Could  you  be  the  mentor  to  this  Telemachus  ?  Think  of 
the  temptations  of  a  metropolis.  Look  at  the  question 
well,  and  let  me  know  speedily,  for  I've  got  him  as  far  as 
this  place,  and  he's  kicking  up  an  awful  row  in  the  hotel- 
yard  and  rattling  his  chain  like  a  maniac.  Let  me  know 
by  telegraph  at  once.  SYLVESTER. 

"  P.S. — Of  course  he's  grown  a  little,  and  doesn't  take 
things  always  as  quietly  as  he  did.  He  dropped  rather 
heavily  on  two  of  Watson's  'purps'  last  week,  and  snatched 
old  Watson  himself,  bald-headed,  for  interfering.  You 
remember  Watson :  for  an  intelligent  man,  he  knows  very 
little  of  California  fauna.  How  are  you  fixed  for  bears  on 
Montgomery  street — I  mean  in  regard  to  corrals  and 
things  ?  S. 

"P.P.S. — He's  got  some  new  tricks.  The  boys  have 
been  teaching  him  to  put  up  his  hands  with  them.  He 
slings  an  ugly  left.  S." 

I  am  afraid  that  my  desire  to  possess  myself  of  Baby 
overcame  all  other  considerations,  and  I  telegraphed  an 
affirmative  at  once  to  Sylvester.  When  I  reached  my 
lodgings  late  that  afternoon,  my  landlady  was  awaiting  me 
with  a  telegram.  It  was  two  lines  from  Sylvester — 

"All  right  Baby  goes  down  on  night-boat.  Be  a 
father  to  him.  S." 

It  was  due,  then,  at  one  o'clock  that  night.  For  a 
moment  I  was  staggered  at  my  own  precipitation.  I  had 
as  yet  made  no  preparations — had  said  nothing  to  my 
landlady  about  her  new  guest.  I  expected  to  arrange 


Baby  Sylvester.  195 

everything  in  time ;  and  now,  through  Sylvester's  indecent 
haste,  that  time  had  been  shortened  twelve  hours. 

Something,  however,  must  be  done  at  once.  I  turned 
to  Mrs.  Brown.  I  had  great  reliance  in  her  maternal 
instincts ;  I  had  that  still  greater  reliance,  common  to  our 
sex,  in  the  general  tender-heartedness  of  pretty  women. 
But  I  confess  I  was  alarmed.  Yet,  with  a  feeble  smile,  I  tried 
to  introduce  the  subject  with  classical  ease  and  lightness. 
I  even  said,  "  If  Shakespeare's  Athenian  clown,  Mrs. 
Brown,  believed  that  a  lion  among  ladies  was  a  dreadful 

thing,  what  must " But  here  I  broke  down,  for  Mrs. 

Brown,  with  the  awful  intuition  of  her  sex,  I  saw  at  once 
was  more  occupied  with  my  manner  than  my  speech.  So 
I  tried  a  business  brusquerie,  and,  placing  the  telegram  in 
her  hand,  said  hurriedly,  "We  must  do  something  about 
this  at  once.  It's  perfectly  absurd,  but  he  will  be  here  at  one 
to-night.  Beg  thousand  pardons,  but  business  prevented 

my  speaking  before" and  paused,  out  of  breath  and 

courage. 

Mrs.  Brown  read  the  telegram  gravely,  lifted  her  pretty 
eyebrows,  turned  the  paper  over  and  looked  on  the  other 
side,  and  then,  in  a  remote  and  chilling  voice,  asked  me  if 
she  understood  me  to  say  that  the  mother  was  coming  also. 

"  Oh,  dear  no,"  I  exclaimed,  with  considerable  relief;  "the 
mother  is  dead,  you  know.  Sylvester — that  is  my  friend, 
who  sent  this — shot  her  when  the  baby  was  only  three  days 

old  " But  the  expression  of  Mrs.  Brown's  face  at  this 

moment  was  so  alarming  that  I  saw  that  nothing  but  the 
fullest  explanation  would  save  me.  Hastily,  and  I  fear  not 
very  coherently,  I  told  her  all. 

She  relaxed  sweetly.  She  said  I  had  frightened  her  with 
my  talk  about  lions.  Indeed,  I  think  my  picture  of  poor 
Baby — albeit  a  trifle  highly  coloured — touched  her  motherly 
heart.  She  was  even  a  little  vexed  at  what  she  called 


196  Baby  Sylvester. 

Sylvester's  "hard-heartedness."  Still,  I  was  not  without 
some  apprehension.  It  was  two  months  since  I  had  seen 
him,  and  Sylvester's  vague  allusion  to  his  "  slinging  an  ugly 
left "  pained  me.  I  looked  at  sympathetic  little  Mrs.  Brown, 
and  the  thought  of  Watson's  pups  covered  me  with  guilty 
confusion. 

Mrs.  Brown  had  agreed  to  sit  up  with  me  until  he  arrived. 
One  o'clock  came,  but  no  Baby.  Two  o'clock — three 
o'clock  passed.  It  was  almost  four  when  there  was  a  wild 
clatter  of  horses]  hoofs  outside,  and  with  a  jerk  a  waggon 
stopped  at  the  door.  In  an  instant  I  had  opened  it  and 
confronted  a  stranger.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  the 
horses  attempted  to  run  away  with  the  waggon. 

The  stranger's  appearance  was,  to  say  the  least,  discon- 
certing. His  clothes  were  badly  torn  and  frayed ;  his  linen 
sack  hung  from  his  shoulders  like  a  herald's  apron ;  one  of 
his  hands  was  bandaged ;  his  face  scratched,  and  there  was 
no  hat  on  his  disheveled  head.  To  add  to  the  general 
effect,  he  had  evidently  sought  relief  from  his  woes  in  drink, 
and  he  swayed  from  side  to  side  as  he  clung  to  the  door 
handle,  and  in  a  very  thick  voice  stated  that  he  had 
"suthin"'  for  me  outside.  When  he  had  finished  the 
horses  made  another  plunge. 

Mrs.  Brown  thought  they  must  be  frightened  at  some- 
thing. 

"  Frightened  ! "  laughed  the  stranger  with  bitter  irony. 
"  Oh  no  !  Hossish  ain't  frightened  !  On'y  ran  away  four 
timesh  comin'  here.  Oh  no  !  Nobody's  frightened.  Every- 
thin's  all  ri'.  Ain't  it,  Bill  ?  "  he  said,  addressing  the  driver. 
"On'y  been  overboard  twish;  knocked  down  a  hatchway 
once.  Thash  nothin' !  On'y  two  men  unner  doctor's  han's 
at  Stockton.  Thash  nothin' !  Six  hunner  dollarsh  cover 
all  dammish." 

I  was  too  much  disheartened  to  reply,  but  moved  toward 


Baby  Sylvester.  197 

the  waggon.     The  stranger  eyed  me  with  an  astonishment 
that  almost  sobered  him. 

"  Do  you  reckon  to  tackle  that  animile  yourself? "  he 
asked,  as  he  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot. 

I  did  not  speak,  but,  with  an  appearance  of  boldness  I  was 
far  from  feeling,  walked  to  the  waggon  and  called  "  Baby !" 

"All  ri'.     Cash  loosh  them  straps,  Bill,  and  stan'  clear." 

The  straps  were  cut  loose,  and  Baby — the  remorseless, 
the  terrible — quietly  tumbled  to  the  ground,  and,  rolling  to 
my  side,  rubbed  his  foolish  head  against  me. 

I  think  the  astonishment  of  the  two  men  was  beyond  any 
vocal  expression.  Without  a  word  the  drunken  stranger 
got  into  the  waggon  and  drove  away. 

And  Baby?  He  had  grown,  it  is  true,  a  trifle  larger; 
but  he  was  thin,  and  bore  the  marks  of  evident  ill-usage. 
His  beautiful  coat  was  matted  and  unkempt,  and  his  claws 
— those  bright  steel  hooks — had  been  ruthlessly  pared  to 
the  quick.  His  eyes  were  furtive  and  restless,  and  the  old 
expression  of  stupid  good-humour  had  changed  to  one  of 
intelligent  distrust.  His  intercourse  with  mankind  had 
evidently  quickened  his  intellect  without  broadening  his 
moral  nature. 

I  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  Mrs.  Brown  from 
smothering  him  in  blankets  and  ruining  his  digestion  with 
the  delicacies  of  her  larder;  but  I  at  last  got  him  completely 
rolled  up  in  the  corner  of  my  room  and  asleep.  I  lay 
awake  some  time  later  with  plans  for  his  future.  I  finally 
determined  to  take  him  to  Oakland,  where  I  had  built  a 
\ittle  cottage  and  always  spent  my  Sundays,  the  very  next 
day.  And  in  the  midst  of  a  rosy  picture  of  domestic 
felicity  I  fell  asleep. 

When  I  awoke  it  was  broad  day.  My  eyes  at  once 
sought  the  corner  where  Baby  had  been  lying.  But  he  was 
gone.  I  sprang  from  the  bed,  looked  under  it,  searched 
the  closet,  but  in  vain.  The  door  was  still  locked;  but 


198  Baby  Sylvester. 

there  were  the  marks  of  his  blunted  claws  upon  the  sill  of 
the  window  that  I  had  forgotten  to  close.  He  had  evi- 
dently escaped  that  way — but  where  ?  The  window  opened 
upon  a  balcony,  to  which  the  only  other  entrance  was 
through  the  hall.  He  must  be  still  in  the  house. 

My  hand  was  already  upon  the  bell-rope,  but  I  stayed  it 
in  time.  If  he  had  not  made  himself  known,  why  should  I 
disturb  the  house  ?  I  dressed  myself  hurriedly  and  slipped 
into  the  hall.  The  first  object  that  met  my  eyes  was  a 
boot  lying  upon  the  stairs.  It  bore  the  marks  of  Baby's 
teeth,  and  as  I  looked  along  the  hall  I  saw  too  plainly 
that  the  usual  array  of  freshly-blackened  boots  and  shoes 
before  the  lodgers'  doors  was  not  there.  As  I  ascended 
the  stairs  I  found  another,  but  with  the  blacking  carefully 
licked  off.  On  the  third  floor  were  two  or  three  more 
boots,  slightly  mouthed ;  but  at  this  point  Baby's  taste  for 
blacking  had  evidently  palled.  A  little  farther  on  was  a 
ladder,  leading  to  an  open  scuttle.  I  mounted  the  ladder, 
and  reached  the  flat  roof  that  formed  a  continuous  level 
over  the  row  of  houses  to  the  corner  of  the  street.  Behind 
the  chimney  on  the  very  last  roof  something  was  lurking. 
It  was  the  fugitive  Baby.  He  was  covered  with  dust  and 
dirt  and  fragments  of  glass.  But  he  was  sitting  on  his 
hind-legs,  and  was  eating  an  enormous  slab  of  pea-nut 
candy  with  a  look  of  mingled  guilt  and  infinite  satisfaction. 
He  even,  I  fancied,  slightly  stroked  his  stomach  with  his 
disengaged  fore-paw  as  I  approached.  He  knew  that  I 
was  looking  for  him,  and  the  expression  of  his  eye  said 
plainly,  "The  past,  at  least,  is  secure." 

I  hurried  him,  with  the  evidences  of  his  guilt,  back  to 
the  scuttle,  and  descended  on  tip-toe  to  the  floor  beneath. 
Providence  favoured  us ;  I  met  no  one  on  the  stairs,  and 
his  own  cushioned  tread  was  inaudible.  I  think  he  was 
conscious  of  the  dangers  of  detection,  for  he  even  forbore 
to  breathe,  or  much  less  chew  the  last  mouthful  he  had 


Baby  Sylvester.  199 

taken ;  and  he  skulked  at  my  side,  with  the  syrup  dropping 
from  his  motionless  jaws.  I  think  he  would  have  silently 
choked  to  death  just  then  for  my  sake,  and  it  was  not 
until  I  had  reached  my  room  again,  and  threw  myself 
panting  on  the  sofa,  that  I  saw  how  near  strangulation  he 
had  been.  He  gulped  once  or  twice,  apologetically,  and 
then  walked  to  the  corner  of  his  own  accord,  and  rolled 
himself  up  like  an  immense  sugar-plum,  sweating  remorse 
and  treacle  at  every  pore. 

I  locked  him  in  when  I  went  to  breakfast,  when  I  found 
Mrs.  Brown's  lodgers  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement  over 
certain  mysterious  events  of  the  night  before,  and  the 
dreadful  revelations  of  the  morning.  It  appeared  that 
burglars  had  entered  the  block  from  the  scuttles;  that, 
being  suddenly  alarmed,  they  had  quitted  our  house  with- 
out committing  any  depredation,  dropping  even  the  boots 
they  had  collected  in  the  halls;  but  that  a  desperate  attempt 
had  been  made  to  force  the  till  in  the  confectioner's  shop 
on  the  corner,  and  that  the  glass  show-cases  had  been  ruth- 
lessly smashed.  A  courageous  servant  in  No.  4  had  seen 
a  masked  burglar,  on  his  hands  and  knees,  attempting  to 
enter  their  scuttle ;  but  on  her  shouting,  "  Away  wid  yees," 
he  instantly  fled. 

I  sat  through  this  recital  with  cheeks  that  burned  un- 
comfortably ;  nor  was  I  the  less  embarrassed  on  raising  my 
eyes  to  meet  Mrs.  Brown's  fixed  curiously  and  mischievously 
on  mine.  As  soon  as  I  could  make  my  escape  from  the 
table  I  did  so,  and,  running  rapidly  upstairs,  sought  refuge 
from  any  possible  inquiry  in  my  own  room.  Baby  was  still 
asleep  in  the  corner.  It  would  not  be  safe  to  remove  him 
until  the  lodgers  had  gone  down  town,  and  I  was  revolving 
in  my  mind  the  expediency  of  keeping  him  until  night 
veiled  his  obtrusive  eccentricity  from  the  public  eye,  when 
there  came  a  cautious  tap  at  my  door.  I  opened  it.  Mrs. 


2OO  Baby  Sylvester. 

Brown  slipped  in  quietly,  closed  the  door  softly,  stood  with 
her  back  against  it  and  her  hand  on  the  knob,  and  beckoned 
me  mysteriously  towards  her.  Then  she  asked,  in  a  low 
voice — 

"  Is  hair-dye  poisonous  ?  " 

I  was  too  confounded  to  speak. 

"  Oh  do  !  you  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said  impatiently. 
"This  stuff."  She  produced  suddenly  from  behind  her  a 
bottle  with  a  Greek  label — so  long  as  to  run  two  or  three 
times  spirally  around  it  from  top  to  bottom.  "  He  says  it 
isn't  a  dye;  it's  a  vegetable  preparation,  for  invigorating" 

"  Who  says  ?  "  I  asked  despairingly. 

"Why,  Mr.  Parker,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  severely, 
with  the  air  of  having  repeated  the  name  a  great  many 
times — "  the  old  gentleman  in  the  room  above.  The 
simple  question  I  want  to  ask,"  she  continued,  with  the 
calm  manner  of  one  who  has  just  convicted  another  of 
gross  ambiguity  of  language,  "  is  only  this :  If  some  of  this 
stuff  were  put  in  a  saucer  and  left  carelessly  on  the  table, 
and  a  child,  or  a  baby,  or  a  cat,  or  any  young  animal,  should 
come  in  at  the  window  and  drink  it  up — a  whole  saucer 
full — because  it  had  a  sweet  taste,  would  it  be  likely  to 
hurt  them  ?  " 

I  cast  an  anxious  glance  at  Baby,  sleeping  peacefully  in 
the  corner,  and  a  very  grateful  one  at  Mrs.  Brown,  and 
said  I  didn't  think  it  would. 

"  Because,"  said  Mrs.  Brown  loftily,  as  she  opened  the 
door,  "  I  thought  if  it  was  poisonous,  remedies  might  be 
used  in  time.  Because,"  she  added  suddenly,  abandoning 
her  lofty  manner  and  wildly  rushing  to  the  corner,  with  a 
frantic  embrace  of  the  unconscious  Baby,  "because  if  any 
nasty  stuff  should  turn  its  booful  hair  a  horrid  green  or  a 
naughty  pink,  it  would  break  its  own  muzzer's  heart,  it 
would ! " 


Baby  Sylvester.  201 

But  before  I  could  assure  Mrs.  Brown  of  the  inefficiency 
of  hair-dye  as  an  internal  application,  she  had  darted  from 
the  room. 

That  night,  with  the  secrecy  of  defaulters,  Baby  and  I 
decamped  from  Mrs.  Brown's.  Distrusting  the  too  emo- 
tional nature  of  that  noble  animal,  the  horse,  I  had  recourse 
to  a  hand-cart,  drawn  by  a  stout  Irishman,  to  convey  my 
charge  to  the  ferry.  Even  then  Baby  refused  to  go  unless 
I  walked  by  the  cart,  and  at  times  rode  in  it. 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  as  she  stood  by  the  door, 
wrapped  in  an  immense  shawl,  and  saw  us  depart,  "  I  wish 
it  looked  less  solemn — less  like  a  pauper's  funeral." 

I  must  admit  that,  as  I  walked  by  the  cart  that  night,  I 
felt  very  much  as  if  I  were  accompanying  the  remains  of 
some  humble  friend  to  his  last  resting-place ;  and  that,  when 
I  was  obliged  to  ride  in  it,  I  never  could  entirely  convince 
myself  that  I  was  not  helplessly  overcome  by  liquor,  or  the 
victim  of  an  accident,  en  route  to  the  hospital.  But  at  last 
we  reached  the  ferry.  On  the  boat  I  think  no  one  dis- 
covered Baby  except  a  drunken  man,  who  approached  me 
to  ask  for  a  light  for  his  cigar,  but  who  suddenly  dropped 
it  and  fled  in  dismay  to  the  gentlemen's  cabin,  where  his 
incoherent  ravings  were  luckily  taken  for  the  earlier  indica- 
tions of  delirium  tremens. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  I  reached  my  little  cottage 
on  the  outskirts  of  Oakland ;  and  it  was  with  a  feeling  of 
relief  and  security  that  I  entered,  locked  the  door,  and 
turned  him  loose  in  the  hall,  satisfied  that  henceforward 
his  depredations  would  be  limited  to  my  own  property. 
He  was  very  quiet  that  night,  and  after  he  had  tried 
to  mount  the  hat-rack,  under  the  mistaken  impression 
that  it  was  intended  for  his  own  gymnastic  exercise,  and 
knocked  all  the  hats  off,  he  went  peaceably  to  sleep  on 
the  rug. 


202  Baby  Sylvester. 

In  a  week,  with  the  exercise  afforded  him  by  the  run  of 
a  large,  carefully-boarded  enclosure,  he  recovered  his  health, 
strength,  spirits,  and  much  of  his  former  beauty.  His 
presence  was  unknown  to  my  neighbours,  although  it  was 
noticeable  that  horses  invariably  "  shied  "  in  passing  to  the 
windward  of  my  house,  and  that  the  baker  and  milkman 
had  great  difficulty  in  the  delivery  of  their  wares  in  the 
morning,  and  indulged  in  unseemly  and  unnecessary  pro- 
fanity in  so  doing. 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  I  determined  to  invite  a  few 
friends  to  see  the  Baby,  and  to  that  purpose  wrote  a 
number  of  formal  invitations,  After  descanting,  at  some 
length,  on  the  great  expense  and  danger  attending  his  cap- 
ture and  training,  I  offered  a  programme  of  the  perfor- 
mances of  the  "  Infant  Phenomenon  of  Sierran  Solitudes," 
drawn  up  into  the  highest  professional  profusion  of  alli- 
teration and  capital  letters.  A  few  extracts  will  give  the 
reader  some  idea  of  his  educational  progress — 

1.  He  will,  rolled  up  in  a  Round  Ball,  roll  down  the  Wood 

Shed,  Rapidly,  illustrating  His  manner  of  Escaping 
from  His  Enemy  in  his  Native  Wilds. 

2.  He  will  Ascend  the  Well  Pole,  and  remove  from  the 

Very  Top  a  Hat,  and  as  much  of  the  Crown  and 
Brim  thereof  as  May  be  Permitted. 

3.  He  will   perform   in   a   pantomime,  descriptive  of  the 

Conduct  of  the  Big  Bear,  The  Middle-Sized  Bear, 
and  The  Little  Bear  of  the  Popular  Nursery  Legend. 

4.  He  will  shake  his  chain  Rapidly,  showing  his  Manner 

of  striking   Dismay  and   Terror    in    the   Breasts   of 
Wanderers  in  Ursine  Wildernesses. 

The  morning  of  the  exhibition  came,  but  an  hour  before 
the  performance  the  wretched  Baby  was  missing.  The 


Baby  Sylvester.  203 

Chinese  cook  could  not  indicate  his  whereabouts.  I 
searched  the  premises  thoroughly,  and  then,  in  despair, 
took  my  hat  and  hurried  out  into  the  narrow  lane  that  led 
toward  the  open  fields  and  the  woods  beyond.  But  I  found 
no  trace  nor  track  of  Baby  Sylvester.  I  returned,  after  an 
hour's  fruitless  search,  to  find  my  guests  already  assembled 
on  the  rear  veranda.  I  briefly  recounted  my  disappoint- 
ment, my  probable  loss,  and  begged  their  assistance. 

"  Why,"  said  a  Spanish  friend,  who  prided  himself  on 
his  accurate  knowledge  of  English,  to  Barker,  who  seemed 
to  be  trying  vainly  to  rise  from  his  reclining  position  on 
the  veranda,  "Why  do  you  not  disengage  yourself  from 
the  veranda  of  our  friend?  and  why,  in  the  name  of 
Heaven,  do  you  attach  to  yourself  so  much  of  this  thing, 
and  make  to  yourself  such  unnecessary  contortion  ?  Ah," 
he  continued,  suddenly  withdrawing  one  of  his  own  feet 
from  the  veranda  with  an  evident  effort,  "I  am  myself 
attached  !  Surely  it  is  something  here  !  " 

It  evidently  was.  My  guests  were  all  rising  with  difficulty, 
— the  floor  of  the  veranda  was  covered  with  some  glutinous 
substance.  It  was — syrup  ! 

I  saw  it  all  in  a  flash.  I  ran  to  the  barn ;  the  keg  of 
"  golden  syrup,"  purchased  only  the  day  before,  lay  empty 
upon  the  floor.  There  were  sticky  tracks  all  over  the 
enclosure,  but  still  no  Baby. 

"There's  something  moving  the  ground  over  there  by 
that  pile  of  dirt,"  said  Barker. 

He  was  right ;  the  earth  was  shaking  in  one  corner  of 
the  enclosure  like  an  earthquake.  I  approached  cautiously. 
I  saw,  what  I  had  not  before  noticed,  that  the  ground  was 
thrown  up;  and  there,  in  the  middle  of  an  immense  grave-like 
cavity,  crouched  Baby  Sylvester,  still  digging,  and  slowly, 
but  surely,  sinking  from  sight  in  a  mass  of  dust  and  clay. 

What  were  his  intentions?    Whether  he  was  stung  by 


2O4  Baby  Sylvester. 

remorse,  and  wished  to  hide  himself  from  my  reproachful 
eyes,  or  whether  he  was  simply  trying  to  dry  his  syrup- 
besmeared  coat,  I  never  shall  know,  for  that  day,  alas !  was 
his  last  with  me. 

He  was  pumped  upon  for  two  hours,  at  the  end  of  which 
time  he  still  yielded  a  thin  treacle.  He  was  then  taken  and 
carefully  enwrapped  in  blankets  and  locked  up  in  the  store- 
room. The  next  morning  he  was  gone  !  The  lower  portion 
of  the  window  sash  and  pane  were  gone  too.  His  success- 
ful experiments  on  the  fragile  texture  of  glass  at  the  con- 
fectioner's, on  the  first  day  of  his  entrance  to  civilisation, 
had  not  been  lost  upon  him.  His  first  essay  at  combining 
cause  and  effect  ended  in  his  escape. 

Where  he  went,  where  he  hid,  who  captured  him  if  he 
did  not  succeed  in  reaching  the  foot-hills  beyond  Oakland, 
even  the  offer  of  a  large  reward,  backed  by  the  efforts  of  an 
intelligent  police,  could  not  discover.  I  never  saw  him 
again  from  that  day  until 

Did  I  see  him  ?  I  was  in  a  horse-car  on  Sixth  Avenue,  a 
few  days  ago,  when  the  horses  suddenly  became  unmanage- 
able and  left  the  track  for  the  sidewalk,  amid  the  oaths  and 
execrations  of  the  driver.  Immediately  in  front  of  the  car  a 
crowd  had  gathered  around  two  performing  bears  and  a 
showman.  One  of  the  animals — thin,  emaciated,  and  the 
mere  wreck  of  his  native  strength — attracted  my  attention. 
I  endeavoured  to  attract  his.  He  turned  a  pair  of  bleared, 
sightless  eyes  in  my  direction,  but  there  was  no  sign  of 
recognition.  I  leaned  from  the  car-window  and  called 
softly,  "  Baby  ! "  But  he  did  not  heed.  I  closed  the  win- 
dow. The  car  was  just  moving  on,  when  he  suddenly 
turned,  and,  either  by  accident  or  design,  thrust  a  callous 
paw  through  the  glass. 

"  It's  worth  a  dollar-and-a-half  to  put  in  a  new  pane,"  said 
the  conductor,  "  if  folks  will  play  with  bears  !  " 


(      205      ) 


(Klan  ILee,  tfie 


As  I  opened  Hop  Sing's  letter  there  fluttered  to  the 
ground  a  square  strip  of  yellow  paper  covered  with  hiero- 
glyphics, which  at  first  glance  I  innocently  took  to  be  the 
label  from  a  pack  of  Chinese  fire-crackers.  But  the  same 
envelope  also  contained  a  smaller  strip  of  rice  paper,  with 
two  Chinese  characters  traced  in  India  ink,  that  I  at  once 
knew  to  be  Hop  Sing's  visiting  card.  The  whole,  as  after- 
wards literally  translated,  ran  as  follows  :  — 

"  To  the  stranger  the  gates  of  my  house  are  not  closed  ; 
the  rice  jar  is.  on  the  left,  and  the  sweetmeats  on  the 
right  as  you  enter. 
Two  sayings  of  the  Master  : 

Hospitality  is  the  virtue  of  the  son  and  the  wisdom 

of  the  ancestor. 
The   superior  man  is  light-hearted   after  the  crop- 

gathering  ;  he  makes  a  festival. 

When  the  stranger  is  in  your  melon  patch  observe  him 
not  too  closely  ;  inattention  is  often  the  highest  form 
of  civility. 

Happiness,  Peace,  and  Prosperity. 

HOP  SING." 

Admirable,  certainly,  as  was  this  morality  and  proverbial 
wisdom,  and  although  this  last  axiom  was  very  characteristic 
of  my  friend  Hop  Sing,  who  was  that  most  sombre  of  all 


206  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

humorists,  a  Chinese  philosopher,  I  must  confess  that,  even 
after  a  very  free  translation,  I  was  at  a  loss  to  make  any 
immediate  application  of  the  message.  Luckily  I  discovered 
a  third  enclosure  in  the  shape  of  a  little  note  in  English  and 
Hop  Sing's  own  commercial  hand.  It  ran  thus — 

"  The  pleasure  of  your  company  is  requested  at  No.  — , 
Sacramento  Street,  on  Friday  Evening  at  8  o'clock.  A  cup  of 
tea  at  9 — sharp.  HOP  SING." 

This  explained  all.  It  meant  a  visit  to  Hop  Sing's  ware- 
house, the  opening  and  exhibition  of  some  rare  Chinese 
novelties  and  curios,  a  chat  in  the  back  office,  a  cup  of  tea 
of  a  perfection  unknown  beyond  these  sacred  precincts, 
cigars,  and  a  visit  to  the  Chinese  Theatre  or  Temple.  This 
was  in  fact  the  favourite  programme  of  Hop  Sing  when  he 
exercised  his  functions  of  hospitality  as  the  chief  factor  or 
Superintendent  of  the  Ning  Foo  Company. 

At  eight  o'clock  on  Friday  evening  I  entered  the  ware- 
house of  Hop  Sing.  There  was  that  deliciously  commingled 
mysterious  foreign  odour  that  I  had  so  often  noticed ;  there 
was  the  old  array  of  uncouth  looking  objects,  the  long  pro- 
cession of  jars  and  crockery,  the  same  singular  blending  of 
the  grotesque  and  the  mathematically  neat  and  exact,  the 
same  endless  suggestions  of  frivolity  and  fragility,  the  same 
want  of  harmony  in  colours  that  were  each,  in  themselves, 
beautiful  and  rare.  Kites  in  the  shape  of  enormous  dragons 
and  gigantic  butterflies ;  kites  so  ingeniously  arranged  as  to 
utter  at  intervals,  when  facing  the  wind,  the  cry  of  a  hawk ; 
kites  so  large  as  to  be  beyond  any  boy's  power  of  restraint 
— so  large  that  you  understood  why  kite-flying  in  China  was 
an  amusement  for  adults;  gods  of  china  and  bronze  so 
gratuitously  ugly  as  to  be  beyond  any  human  interest  or 
sympathy  from  their  very  impossibility ;  jars  of  sweetmeats 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  207 

covered  all  over  with  moral  sentiments  from  Confucius; 
hats  that  looked  like  baskets,  and  baskets  that  looked  like 
hats ;  silks  so  light  that  I  hesitate  to  record  the  incredible 
number  of  square  yards  that  you  might  pass  through  the 
ring  on  your  little  ringer — these  and  a  great  many  other  inde- 
scribable objects  were  all  familiar  to  me.  I  pushed  my  way 
through  the  dimly-lighted  warehouse  until  I  reached  the 
back  office  or  parlour,  where  I  found  Hop  Sing  waiting  to 
receive  me. 

Before  I  describe  him  I  want  the  average  reader  to  dis- 
charge from  his  mind  any  idea  of  a  Chinaman  that  he 
may  have  gathered  from  the  pantomime.  He  did  not 
wear  beautifully  scalloped  drawers  fringed-  with  little  bells 
— I  never  met  a  Chinaman  who  did ;  he  did  not  habitually 
carry  his  forefinger  extended  before  him  at  right  angles  with 
his  body,  nor  did  I  ever  hear  him  utter  the  mysterious  sen- 
tence, "  Ching  a  ring  a  ring  chaw,"  nor  dance  under  any  pro- 
vocation. He  was,  on  the  whole,  a  rather  grave,  decorous, 
handsome  gentleman.  His  complexion,  which  extended 
all  over  his  head  except  where  his  long  pig-tail  grew,  was 
like  a  very  nice  piece  of  glazed  brown  paper-muslin.  His 
eyes  were  black  and  bright,  and  his  eyelids  set  at  an  angle 
of  15°;  his  nose  straight  and  delicately  formed,  his  mouth 
small,  and  his  teeth  white  and  clean.  He  wore  a  dark  blue 
silk  blouse,  and  in  the  streets  on  cold  days  a  short  jacket 
of  Astrakhan  fur.  He  wore  also  a  pair  of  drawers  of  blue 
brocade  gathered  tightly  over  his  calves  and  ankles,  offering 
a  general  sort  of  suggestion  that  he  had  forgotten  his  trousers 
that  morning,  but  that,  so  gentlemanly  were  his  manners, 
his  friends  had  forborne  to  mention  the  fact  to  him.  His 
manner  was  urbane,  although  quite  serious.  He  spoke 
French  and  English  fluently.  In  brief,  I  doubt  if  you 
could  have  found  the  equal  of  this  Pagan  shopkeeper 
among  the  Christian  traders  of  San  Francisco. 


2o8  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

There  were  a  few  others  present :  a  Judge  of  the  Federal 
Court,  an  editor,  a  high  government  official,  and  a  pro- 
minent merchant.  After  we  had  drunk  our  tea,  and  tasted 
a  few  sweetmeats  from  a  mysterious  jar,  that  looked  as  if  it 
might  contain  a  preserved  mouse  among  its  other  nonde- 
script treasures,  Hop  Sing  arose,  and  gravely  beckoning  us 
to  follow  him,  began  to  descend  to  the  basement.  When 
we  got  there,  we  were  amazed  at  finding  it  brilliantly  lighted, 
and  that  a  number  of  chairs  were  arranged  in  a  half-circle 
on  the  asphalt  pavement.  When  he  had  courteously  seated 
us,  he  said — 

"I  have  invited  you  to  witness  a  performance  which  I 
can  at  least  promise  you  no  other  foreigners  but  yourselves 
have  ever  seen.  Wang,  the  court  juggler,  arrived  here 
yesterday  morning.  He  has  never  given  a  performance 
outside  of  the  palace  before.  I  have  asked  him  to  entertain 
my  friends  this  evening.  He  requires  no  theatre,  stage,  ac- 
cessories, or  any  confederate — nothing  more  than  you  see 
here.  Will  you  be  pleased  to  examine  the  ground  yourselves, 
gentlemen." 

Of  course  we  examined  the  premises.  It  was  the 
ordinary  basement  or  cellar  of  the  San  Francisco  store- 
house, cemented. to  keep  out  the  damp.  We  poked  our 
sticks  into  the  pavement  and  rapped  on  the  walls  to  satisfy 
our  polite  host,  but  for  no  other  purpose.  We  were  quite 
content  to  be  the  victims  of  any  clever  deception.  For 
myself,  I  knew  I  was  ready  to  be  deluded  to  any  extent, 
and  if  I  had  been  offered  an  explanation  of  what  followed, 
I  should  have  probably  declined  it. 

Although  I  am  satisfied  that  Wang's  general  performance 
was  the  first  of  that  kind  ever  given  on  American  soil,  it  has 
probably  since  become  so  familiar  to  many  of  my  readers 
that  I  shall  not  bore  them  with  it  here.  He  began  by  set- 
ting to  flight,  with  the  aid  of  his  fan,  the  usual  number  of 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  209 

butterflies  made  before  our  eyes  of  little  bits  of  tissue  paper, 
and  kept  them  in  the  air  during  the  remainder  of  the  per- 
formance. I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the  judge  trying 
to  catch  one  that  had  lit  on  his  knee,  and  of  its  evading  him 
with  the  pertinacity  of  a  living  insect.  And  even  at  this 
time  Wang,  still  plying  his  fan,  was  taking  chickens  out  of 
hats,  making  oranges  disappear,  pulling  endless  yards  of  silk 
from  his  sleeve,  apparently  filling  the  whole  area  of  the 
basement  with  goods  that  appeared  mysteriously  from  the 
ground,  from  his  own  sleeves,  from  nowhere  !  He  swallowed 
knives  to  the  ruin  of  his  digestion  for  years  to  come ;  he 
dislocated  every  limb  of  his  body ;  he  reclined  in  the  air, 
apparently  upon  nothing.  But  his  crowning  performance, 
which  I  have  never  yet  seen  repeated,  was  the  most  weird, 
mysterious,  and  astounding.  -It  is  my  apology  for  this  long 
introduction,  my  sole  excuse  for  writing  this  article,  the 
genesis  of  this  veracious  history. 

He  cleared  the  ground  of  its  encumbering  articles  for 
a  space  of  about  fifteen  feet  square,  and  then  invited  us  all 
to  walk  forward  and  again  examine  it.  We  did  so  gravely ; 
there  was  nothing  but  the  cemented  pavement  below  to  be 
seen  or  felt.  He  then  asked  for  the  loan  of  a  handkerchief, 
and,  as  I  chanced  to  be  nearest  him,  I  offered  mine.  He 
took  it  and  spread  it  open  upon  the  floor.  Over  this  he 
spread  a  large  square  of  silk,  and  over  this  again  a  large 
shawl  nearly  covering  the  space  he  had  cleared.  He  then 
took  a  position  at  one  of  the  points  of  this  rectangle,  and 
began  a  monotonous  chant,  rocking  his  body  to  and  fro  in 
time  with  the  somewhat  lugubrious  air. 

We  sat  still  and  waited.  Above  the  chant  we  could  hear 
the  striking  of  the  city  clocks,  and  the  occasional  rattle  of 
a  cart  in  the  street  overhead.  The  absolute  watchfulness 
and  expectation,  the  dim,  mysterious  half-light  of  the  cellar, 
falling  in  a  gruesome  way  upon  the  misshapen  bulk  of  a 

VOL.  III.  O 


2IO  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

Chinese  deity  in  the  background,  a  faint  smell  of  opium 
smoke  mingling  with  spice,  and  the  dreadful  uncertainty 
of  what  we  were  really  waiting  for,  sent  an  uncomfortable 
thrill  down  our  backs,  and  made  us  look  at  each  other  with 
a  forced  and  unnatural  smile.  This  feeling  was  heightened 
when  Hop  Sing  slowly  rose,  and,  without  a  word,  pointed 
with  his  finger  to  the  centre  of  the  shawl. 

There  was  something  beneath  the  shawl !  Surely — and 
something  that  was  not  there  before.  At  first  a  mere  sug- 
gestion in  relief,  a  faint  outline,  but  growing  more  and 
more  distinct  and  visible  every  moment  The  chant  still 
continued,  the  perspiration  began  to  roll  from  the  singer's 
face,  gradually  the  hidden  object  took  upon  itself  a  shape 
and  bulk  that  raised  the  shawl  in  its  centre  some  five  or  six 
inches.  It  was  now  unmistakably  the  outline  of  a  small 
but  perfect  human  figure,  with  extended  arms  and  legs. 
One  or  two  of  us  turned  pale,  there  was  a  feeling  of  general 
uneasiness,  until  the  editor  broke  the  silence  by  a  gibe  that, 
poor  as  it  was,  was  received  with  spontaneous  enthusiasm. 
Then  the  chant  suddenly  ceased,  Wang  arose,  and,  with  a 
quick,  dexterous  movement,  stripped  both  shawl  and  silk 
away,  and  discovered,  sleeping  peacefully  upon  my  hand- 
kerchief, a  tiny  Chinese  baby  ! 

The  applause  and  uproar  which  followed  this  revelation 
ought  to  have  satisfied  Wang,  even  if  his  audience  was  a 
small  one;  it  was  loud  enough  to  awaken  the  baby — a 
pretty  little  boy  about  a  year  old,  looking  like  a  Cupid  cut 
out  of  sandalwood.  He  was  whisked  away  almost  as 
mysteriously  as  he  appeared.  When  Hop  Sing  returned 
my  handkerchief  to  me  with  a  bow,  I  asked  if  the  juggler 
was  the  father  of  the  baby.  "No,  sabe  !"  said  the  imper- 
turbable Hop  Sing,  taking  refuge  in  that  Spanish  form  of 
non-committalism  so  common  in  California. 

"  But  does  he  have  a  new  baby  for  every  performance  ?  w 
I  asked. 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  2 1 1 

"  Perhaps  ;  who  knows  ?  "    • 

"  But  what  will  become  of  this  one  ?  " 

"Whatever  you  choose,  gentlemen,"  replied  Hop  Sing, 
with  a  courteous  inclination ;  "  it  was  born  here — you  are 
its  godfathers." 

There  were  two  characteristic  peculiarities  of  any  Cali- 
fornian  assemblage  in  1856  :  it  was  quick  to  take  a  hint, 
and  generous  to  the  point  of  prodigality  in  its  response  to 
any  charitable  appeal.  No  matter  how  sordid  or  avaricious 
the  individual,  he  could  not  resist  the  infection  of  sympathy. 
I  doubled  the  points  of  my  handkerchief  into  a  bag,  dropped 
a  coin  into  it,  and,  without  a  word,  passed  it,  to  the  judge. 
He  quietly  added  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece,  and  passed  it 
to  the  next ;  when  it  was  returned  to  me  it  contained  over 
a  hundred  dollars.  I  knotted  the  money  in  the  handker- 
chief, and  gave  it  to  Hop  Sing. 

"For  the  baby,  from  its  godfathers." 

"  But  what  name  ?"  said  the  judge.  There  was  a  running 
fire  of  "Erebus,"  "  Nox,"  "  Plutus,"  "Terra  Cotta," 
"Antaeus,"  &c..  &c.  Finally  the  question  was  referred  to 
our  host. 

"  Why  not  keep  his  own  name,"  he  said  quietly — "  Wan 
Lee  ?  "  And  he  did. 

And  thus  was  Wan  Lee,  on  the  night  of  Friday  the  5th 
of  March  1856,  born  into  this  veracious  chronicle. 

The  last  forme  of  the  "  Northern  Star"  for  the  ipth  of 
July  1865 — the  only  daily  paper  published  in  Klamath 
County — had  just  gone  to  press,  and  at  three  A.M.  I  was 
putting  aside  my  proofs  and  manuscripts,  preparatory  to 
going  home,  when  I  discovered  a  letter  lying  under  some 
sheets  of  paper  which  I  must  have  overlooked.  The  enve- 
lope was  considerably  soiled,  it  had  no  post-mark,  but  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  recognising  the  hand  of  my  friend  Hop 
Sing.  I  opened  it  hurriedly  and  read  as  follows : — 


212  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR, — I  do  not  know  whether  the  bearer  will 
suit  you,  but  unless  the  office  of  '  devil '  in  your  newspaper 
is  a  purely  technical  one,  I  think  he  has  all  the  qualities 
required.  He  is  very  quick,  active,  and  intelligent ;  under- 
stands English  better  than  he  speaks  it,  and  makes  up  for 
any  defect  by  his  habits  of  observation  and  imitation.  You 
have  only  to  show  him  how  to  do  a  thing  once,  and  he  will 
repeat  it,  whether  it  is  an  offence  or  a  virtue.  But  you 
certainly  know  him  already ;  you  are  one  of  his  godfathers, 
for  is  he  not  Wan  Lee,  the  reputed  son  of  Wang  the  con- 
jurer, to  whose  performances  I  had  the  honour  to  introduce 
you  ?  But,  perhaps,  you  have  forgotten  it. 

"  I  shall  send  him  with  a  gang  of  coolies  to  Stockton, 
thence  by  express  to  your  town.  If  you  can  use  him 
there,  you  will  do  me  a  favour,  and  probably  save  his  life, 
which  is  at  present  in  great  peril  from  the  hands  of  the 
younger  members  of  your  Christian  and  highly- civilised 
race  who  attend  the  enlightened  schools  in  San  Fran- 
cisco. 

"  He  has  acquired  some  singular  habits  and  customs  from 
his  experience  of  Wang's  profession,  which  he  followed  for 
some  years,  until  he  became  too  large  to  go  in  a  hat,  or  be 
produced  from  his  father's  sleeve.  The  money  you  left 
with  me  has  been  expended  on  his  education  ;  he  has  gone 
through  the  Tri-literal  Classics,  but,  I  think,  without  much 
benefit.  He  knows  but  little  of  Confucius,  and  absolutely 
nothing  of  Mencius.  Owing  to  the  negligence  of  his 
father,  he  associated,  perhaps,  too  much  with  American 
children. 

"I  should  have  answered  your  letter  before,  by  post, 
but  I  thought  that  Wan  Lee  himself  would  be  a  better 
messenger  for  this. 

"Yours  respectfully, 

"Hop  SING." 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  213 

And  this  was  the  long-delayed  answer  to  my  letter  to 
Hop  Sing.  But  where  was  "  the  bearer  "  ?  How  was  the 
letter  delivered  ?  I  summoned  hastily  the  foreman,  printers, 
and  office-boy,  but  without  eliciting  anything ;  no  one  had 
seen  the  letter  delivered,  nor  knew  anything  of  the  bearer. 
A  few  days  later  I  had  a  visit  from  my  laundry-man, 
AhRi. 

"You  wantee  debbil?     All  lightee;  me  catchee  him." 

He  returned  in  a  few  moments  with  a  bright-looking 
Chinese  boy,  about  ten  years  old,  with  whose  appearance 
and  general  intelligence  I  was  so  greatly  impressed  that  I 
engaged  him  on  the  spot.  When  the  business  was  con- 
cluded, I  asked  his  name. 

"  Wan  Lee,"  said  the  boy. 

"What!  Are  you  the  boy  sent  out  by  Hop  Sing? 
What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  not  coming  here  before, 
and  how  did  you  deliver  that  letter  ?  " 

Wan  Lee  looked  at  me  and  laughed.  "  Me  pitchee  in 
top  side  window." 

I  did  not  understand.  He  looked  for  a  moment  per- 
plexed, and  then,  snatching  the  letter  out  of  my  hand,  ran 
down  the  stairs.  After  a  moment's  pause,  to  my  great 
astonishment,  the  letter  came  flying  in  at  the  window, 
circled  twice  around  the  room,  and  then  dropped  gently  like 
a  bird  upon  my  table.  Before  I  had  got  over  my  surprise 
Wan  Lee  reappeared,  smiled,  looked  at  the  letter  and  then 
at  me,  said,  "  So,  John,"  and  then  remained  gravely  silent. 
I  said  nothing  further,  but  it  was  understood  that  this  was 
his  first  official  act 

His  next  performance,  I  grieve  to  say,  was  not  attended 
with  equal  success.  One  of  our  regular  paper-carriers  fell 
sick,  and,  at  a  pinch,  Wan  Lee  was  ordered  to  fill  his  place. 
To  prevent  mistakes  he  was  shown  over  the  route  the 
previous  evening,  and  supplied  at  about  daylight  with  the 


214  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

usual  number  of  subscribers'  copies.  He  returned  after  an 
hour,  in  good  spirits  and  without  the  papers.  He  had 
delivered  them  all,  he  said. 

Unfortunately  for  Wan  Lee,  at  about  eight  o'clock  indig- 
nant subscribers  began  to  arrive  at  the  office.  They  had 
received  their  copies ;  but  how  ?  In  the  form  of  hard- 
pressed  cannon  balls,  delivered  by  a  single  shot  and  a 
mere  tour  de  force  through  the  glass  of  bedroom  windows. 
They  had  received  them  full  in  the  face,  like  a  base  ball, 
if  they  happened  to  be  up  and  stirring ;  they  had  received 
them  in  quarter  sheets,  tucked  in  at  separate  windows; 
they  had  found  them  in  the  chimney,  pinned  against  the 
door,  shot  through  attic  windows,  delivered  in  long  slips 
through  convenient  keyholes,  stuffed  into  ventilators,  and 
occupying  the  same  can  with  the  morning's  milk.  One 
subscriber,  who  waited  for  some  time  at  the  office  door,  to 
have  a  personal  interview  with  Wan  Lee  (then  comfortably 
locked  in  my  bedroom),  told  me,  with  tears  of  rage  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  had  been  awakened  at  five  o'clock  by  a  most 
hideous  yelling  below  his  windows ;  that  on  rising,  in  great 
agitation,  he  was  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  the 
"Northern  Star,"  rolled  hard  and  bent  into  the  form  of 
a  boomerang  or  East  Indian  club,  that  sailed  into  the 
window,  described  a  number  of  fiendish  circles  in  the 
room,  knocked  over  the  light,  slapped  the  baby's  face, 
"took"  him  (the  subscriber)  "in  the  jaw,"  and  then 
returned  out  of  the  window,  and  dropped  helplessly  in  the 
area.  During  the  rest  of  the  day  wads  and  strips  of  soiled 
paper,  purporting  to  be  copies  of  the  "  Northern  Star "  of 
that  morning's  issue,  were  brought  indignantly  to  the  office- 
An  admirable  editorial  on  "  The  Resources  of  Humboldt 
County,"  which  I  had  constructed  the  evening  before,  and 
which,  I  have  reason  to  believe,  might  have  changed  the 
whole  balance  of  trade  during  the  ensuing  year,  and  left 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  2 15 

San  Francisco  bankrupt  at  her  wharves,  was  in  this  way 
lost  to  the  public. 

It  was  deemed  advisable  for  the  next  three  weeks  to 
keep  Wan  Lee  closely  confined  to  the  printing-office  and 
the  purely  mechanical  part  of  the  business.  Here  he 
developed  a  surprising  quickness  and  adaptability,  winning 
even  the  favour  and  goodwill  of  the  printers  and  foreman, 
who  at  first  looked  upon  his  introduction  into  the  secrets  of 
their  trade  as  fraught  with  the  gravest  political  significance. 
He  learned  to  set  type  readily  and  neatly,  his  wonderful 
skill  in  manipulation  aiding  him  in  the  mere  mechanical 
act,  and  his  ignorance  of  the  language  confining  him 
simply  to  the  mechanical  effort — confirming  the  printer's 
axiom  that  the  printer  who  considers  or  follows  the  ideas 
of  his  copy  makes  a  poor  compositor.  He  would  set  up 
deliberately  long  diatribes  against  himself,  composed  by  his 
fellow-printers,  and  hung  on  his  hook  as  copy,  and  even 
such  short  sentences  as  "  Wan  Lee  is  the  devil's  own  imp," 
"  Wan  Lee  is  a  Mongolian  rascal,"  and  bring  the  proof  to 
me  with  happiness  beaming  from  every  tooth  and  satisfac- 
tion shining  in  his  huckleberry  eyes. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  learned  to  retaliate 
on  his  mischievous  persecutors.  I  remember  one  instance 
in  which  his  reprisal  came  very  near  involving  me  in  a 
serious  misunderstanding.  Our  foreman's  name  was 
Webster,  and  Wan  Lee  presently  learned  to  know  and 
recognise  the  individual  and  combined  letters  of  his  name. 
It  was  during  a  political  campaign,  and  the  eloquent  and  fiery 
Colonel  Starbottle,  of  Siskiyou,  had  delivered  an  effective 
speech,  which  was  reported  especially  for  the  "  Northern 
Star."  In  a  very  sublime  peroration  Colonel  Starbottle  had 
said,  "  In  the  language  of  the  godlike  Webster,  I  repeat," 
— and  here  followed  the  quotation,  which  I  have  forgotten. 
Now,  it  chanced  that  Wan  Lee,  looking  over  the  galley 


2 1 6  Wan  Lee>  the  Pagan. 

after  it  had  been  revised,  saw  the  name  of  his  chief  per- 
secutor, and,  of  course,  imagined  the  quotation  his.  After 
the  forme  was  locked  up,  Wan  Lee  took  advantage  of 
Webster's  absence  to  remove  the  quotation,  and  substitute 
a  thin  piece  of  lead,  of  the  same  size  as  the  type,  engraved 
with  Chinese  characters,  making  a  sentence  which,  I  had 
reason  to  believe,  was  an  utter  and  abject  confession  of  the 
incapacity  and  offensiveness  of  the  Webster  family  generally, 
and  exceedingly  eulogistic  of  Wan  Lee  himself  personally. 

The  next  morning's  paper  contained  Colonel  Starbottle's 
speech  in  full,  in  which  it  appeared  that  the  "  godlike " 
Webster  had  on  one  occasion  uttered  his  thoughts  in 
excellent  but  perfectly  enigmatical  Chinese.  The  rage  of 
Colonel  Starbottle  knew  no  bounds.  I  have  a  vivid  recol- 
lection of  that  admirable  man  walking  into  my  office  and 
demanding  a  retraction  of  the  statement. 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  I  asked,  "  are  you  willing  to  deny, 
over  your  own  signature,  that  Webster  ever  uttered  such  a 
sentence  ?  Dare  you  deny  that,  with  Mr.  Webster's  well- 
known  attainments,  a  knowledge  of  Chinese  might  not  have 
been  among  the  number?  Are  you  willing  to  submit  a 
translation  suitable  to  the  capacity  of  our  readers,  and  deny, 
upon  your  honour  as  a  gentleman,  that  the  late  Mr.  Web- 
ster ever  uttered  such  a  sentiment  ?  If  you  are,  sir,  I  am 
willing  to  publish  your  denial." 

The  Colonel  was  not,  and  left,  highly  indignant 

Webster,  the  foreman,  took  it  more  coolly.  Happily  he 
was  unaware  that  for  two  days  after,  Chinamen  from  the 
laundries,  from  the  gulches,  from  the  kitchens,  looked  in 
the  front  office  door  with  faces  beaming  with  sardonic  de- 
light ;  that  three  hundred  extra  copies  of  the  "Star"  were 
ordered  for  the  wash-houses  on  the  river.  He  only  knew  that 
during  the  day  Wan  Lee  occasionally  went  off  into  convul- 
sive spasms,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to  kick  him  into  con- 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  217 

sciousness  again.  A  week  after  the  occurrence  I  called  Wan 
Lee  into  my  office. 

"Wan,"  I  said  gravely,  "I  should  like  you  to  give 
me,  for  my  own  personal  satisfaction,  a  translation  of  that 
Chinese  sentence  which  my  gifted  countryman,  the  late 
godlike  Webster,  uttered  upon  a  public  occasion."  Wan 
Lee  looked  at  me  intently,  and  then  the  slightest  pos- 
sible twinkle  crept  into  his  black  eyes.  Then  he  replied, 
with  equal  gravity — 

"  Mishtel  Webstel, — he  say  :  '  China  boy  makee  me  belly 
much  foolee.  China  boy  makee  me  heap  sick.' "  Which  I 
have  reason  to  think  was  true. 

But  I  fear  I  am  giving  but  one  side,  and  not  the  best,  of 
Wan  Lee's  character.  As  he  imparted  it  to  me,  his  had 
been  a  hard  life.  He  had  known  scarcely  any  childhood — 
he  had  no  recollection  of  a  father  or  mother.  The  conjurer 
Wang  had  brought  him  up.  He  had  spent  the  first  seven 
years  of  his  life  in  appearing  from  baskets,  in  dropping  out 
of  hats,  in  climbing  ladders,  in  putting  his  little  limbs  out 
of  joint  in  posturing.  He  had  lived  in  an  atmosphere  of 
trickery  and  deception  ;  he  had  learned  to  look  upon  man- 
kind as  dupes  of  their  senses  ;  in  fine,  if  he  had  thought  at 
all,  he  would  have  been  a  sceptic,  if  he  had  been  a  little 
older,  he  would  have  been  a  cynic,  if  he  had  been  older  still, 
'he  would  have  been  a  philosopher.  As  it  was,  he  was  a 
little  imp !  A  good-natured  imp  it  was,  too — an  imp 
whose  moral  nature  had  never  been  awakened,  an  imp  up 
for  a  holiday,  and  willing  to  try  virtue  as  a  diversion.  I 
don't  know  that  he  had  any  spiritual  nature ;  he  was  very 
superstitious :  he  carried  about  with  him  a  hideous  little 
porcelain  god,  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  alternately  revil- 
ing and  propitiating.  He  was  too  intelligent  for  the 
commoner  Chinese  vices  of  stealing  or  gratuitous  lying. 
Whatever  discipline  he  practised  was  taught  by  his  intellect 


218  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

I  am  inclined  to  think  that  his  feelings  were  not  altogether 
unimpressible — although  it  was  almost  impossible  to  extract 
an  expression  from  him — and  I  conscientiously  believe  he 
became  attached  to  those  that  were  good  to  him.  What  he 
might  have  become  under  more  favourable  conditions  than 
the  bondsman  of  an  over-worked,  under-paid  literary  man, 
I  don't  know  ;  I  only  know  that  the  scant,  irregular,  impul- 
sive kindnesses  that  I  showed  him  were  gratefully  received. 
He  was  very  loyal  and  patient — two  qualities  rare  in  the 
average  American  servant.  He  was  like  Malvolio,  "sad 
and  civil"  with  me  ;  only  once,  and  then  under  great  provo- 
cation, do  I  remember  of  his  exhibiting  any  impatience.  It 
was  my  habit,  after  leaving  the  office  at  night,  to  take  him 
with  me  to  my  rooms,  as  the  bearer  of  any  supplemental  or 
happy  after-thought  in  the  editorial  way,  that  might  occur 
to  me  before  the  paper  went  to  press.  One  night  I  had 
been  scribbling  away  past  the  usual  hour  of  dismissing  Wan 
Lee,  and  had  become  quite  oblivious  of  his  presence  in  a 
chair  near  my  door,  when  suddenly  I  became  aware  of  a 
voice  saying,  in  plaintive  accents,  something  that  sounded 
like  "  Chy  Lee." 

I  faced  around  sternly. 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Me  say,  '  Chy  Lee.' " 

"Well?"  I  said  impatiently. 

"  You  sabe,  '  How  do,  John  ? ' " 

"Yes." 

"  You  sabe,  < So  long,  John? '" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  «  Chy  Lee'  allee  same ! " 

I  understood  him  quite  plainly.  It  appeared  that  "  Chy 
Lee  "  was  a  form  of  "  good-night,"  and  that  Wan  Lee  was 
anxious  to  go  home.  But  an  instinct  of  mischief  which  I 
fear  I  possessed  in  common  with  him,  impelled  me  to  act 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  219 

as  if  oblivious  of  the  hint.  I  muttered  something  about  not 
understanding  him,  and  again  bent  over  my  work.  In  a 
few  minutes  I  heard  his  wooden  shoes  pattering  pathetically 
over  the  floor.  I  looked  up.  He  was  standing  near  the 
door. 

"Younosabe,  <Chy  Lee?'" 

"  No,"  I  said  sternly. 

"  You  sabe  muchee  big  foolee  ! — allee  same  ! " 

And  with  this  audacity  upon  his  lips  he  fled.  The  next 
morning,  however,  he  was  as  meek  and  patient  as  before, 
and  I  did  not  recall  his  offence.  As  a  probable  peace- 
offering,  he  blacked  all  my  boots — a  duty  never  required 
of  him — including  a  pair  of  buff  deer-skin  slippers  and  an 
immense  pair  of  horseman's  jack-boots,  on  which  he  indulged 
his  remorse  for  two  hours. 

I  have  spoken  of  his  honesty  as  being  a  quality  of  his 
intellect  rather  than  his  principle,  but  I  recall  about  this  time 
two  exceptions  to  the  rule.  I  was  anxious  to  get  some  fresh 
eggs,  as  a  change  to  the  heavy  diet  of  a  mining  town,  and 
knowing  that  Wan  Lee's  countrymen  were  great  poultry 
raisers,  I  applied  to  him.  He  furnished  me  with  them 
regularly  every  morning,  but  refused  to  take  any  pay,  saying 
that  the  man  did  not  sell  them — a  remarkable  instance  of 
self-abnegation,  as  eggs  were  then  worth  half  a  dollar  apiece. 
One  morning,  my  neighbour,  Foster,  dropped  in  upon  me  at 
breakfast,  and  took  occasion  to  bewail  his  own  ill  fortune, 
as  his  hens  had  lately  stopped  laying,  or  wandered  off  in  the 
bush.  Wan  Lee,  who  was  present  during  our  colloquy, 
preserved  his  characteristic  sad  taciturnity.  When  my 
neighbour  had  gone,  he  turned  to  me  with  a  slight  chuckle — 
"  Flostel's  hens — Wan  Lee's  hens — allee  same  ! "  His  other 
offence  was  more  serious  and  ambitious.  It  was  a  season 
of  great  irregularities  in  the  mails,  and  Wan  Lee  had  heard 
me  deplore  the  delay  in  the  delivery  of  my  letters  and 


22O  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

newspapers.  On  arriving  at  my  office  one  day,  I  was  amazed 
to  find  my  table  covered  with  letters,  evidently  just  from 
the  post-office,  but  unfortunately  not  one  addressed  to  me. 
I  turned  to  Wan  Lee,  who  was  surveying  them  with  a  calm 
satisfaction,  and  demanded  an  explanation.  To  my  horror 
he  pointed  to  an  empty  mail-bag  in  the  corner,  and  said — 
"  Postman  he  say  '  No  lettee,  John — no  lettee,  John/  Post- 
man plentee  lie  !  Postman  no  good.  Me  catchee  lettee  last 
night — allee  same  ! "  Luckily  it  was  still  early  ;  the  mails 
had  not  been  distributed  ;  I  had  a  hurried  interview  with 
the  Postmaster,  and  Wan  Lee's  bold  attempt  at  robbing  the 
U.  S.  Mail  was  finally  condoned,  by  the  purchase  of  a  new 
mail-bag,  and  the  whole  affair  thus  kept  a  secret. 

If  my  liking  for  my  little  pagan  page  had  not  been  suffi- 
cient, my  duty  to  Hop  Sing  was  enough  to  cause  me  to 
take  Wan  Lee  with  me  when  I  returned  to  San  Francisco, 
after  my  two  years'  experience  with  the  "Northern  Star." 
I  do  not  think  he  contemplated  the  change  with  pleasure. 
I  attributed  his  feelings  to  a  nervous  dread  of  crowded 
public  streets — when  he  had  to  go  across  town  for  me  on 
an  errand,  he  always  made  a  long  circuit  of  the  outskirts — 
to  his  dislike  for  the  discipline  of  the  Chinese  and  English 
school  to  which  I  proposed  to  send  him,  to  his  fondness  for 
the  free,  vagrant  life  of  the  mines,  to  sheer  wilfulness ! 
That  it  might  have  been  a  superstitious  premonition  did  not 
occur  to  me  until  long  after. 

Nevertheless  it  really  seemed  as  if  the  opportunity  I  had 
long  looked  for  and  confidently  expected  had  come — the 
opportunity  of  placing  Wan  Lee  under  gently  restraining 
influences,  of  subjecting  him  to  a  life  and  experience  that 
would  draw  out  of  him  what  good  my  superficial  care  and 
ill-regulated  kindness  could  not  reach.  Wan  Lee  was  placed 
at  the  school  of  a  Chinese  missionary — an  intelligent  and 
kind-hearted  clergyman,  who  had  shown  great  interest  in 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  221 

the  boy,  and  who,  better  than  all,  had  a  wonderful  faith  in 
him.  A  home  was  found  for  him  in  the  family  of  a  widow, 
who  had  a  bright  and  interesting  daughter  about  two  years 
younger  than  Wan  Lee.  It  was  this  bright,  cheery,  innocent 
and  artless  child  that  touched  and  reached  a  depth  in  the 
boy's  nature  that  hitherto  had  been  unsuspecte4 — that 
awakened  a  moral  susceptibility  which  had  lain  for  years 
insensible  alike  to  the  teachings  of  society  or  the  ethics  of 
the  theologian. 

These  few  brief  months,  bright  with  a  promise  that  we 
never  saw  fulfilled,  must  have  been  happy  ones  to  Wan  Lee. 
He  worshipped  his  little  friend  with  something  of  the  same 
superstition,  but  without  any  of  the  caprice,  that  he  bestowed 
upon  his  porcelain  pagan  god.  It  was  his  delight  to  walk 
behind  her  to  school,  carrying  her  books — a  service  always 
fraught  with  danger  to  him  from  the  little  hands  of  his 
Caucasian  Christian  brothers.  He  made  her  the  most 
marvellous  toys,  he  would  cut  out  of  carrots  and  turnips 
the  most  astonishing  roses  and  tulips,  he  made  lifelike 
chickens  out  of  melon-seeds,  he  constructed  fans  and  kites, 
and  was  singularly  proficient  in  the  making  of  dolls'  paper 
dresses.  On  the  other  hand  she  played  and  sang  to  him, 
taught  him  a  thousand  little  prettinesses  and  refinements 
only  known  to  girls,  gave  him  a  yellow  ribbon  for  his 
pig-tail,  as  best  suiting  his  complexion,  read  to  him,  showed 
him  wherein  he  was  original  and  valuable,  took  him  to 
Sunday  School  with  her,  against  the  precedents  of  the 
school,  and,  small-womanlike,  triumphed.  I  wish  I  could 
add  here,  that  she  effected  his  conversion,  and  made  him 
give  up  his  porcelain  idol,  but  I  am  telling  a  true  story,  and 
this  little  girl  was  quite  content  to  fill  him  with  her  own 
Christian  goodness,  without  letting  him  know  that  he  was 
changed.  So  they  got  along  very  well  together — this  little 
Christian  girl  with  her  shining  cross  hanging  around  her 


222  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan. 

plump,  white,  little  neck,  and  this  dark  little  pagan,  with 
his  hideous  porcelain  god  hidden  away  in  his  blouse. 

There  were  two  days  of  that  eventful  year  which  will 
long  be  remembered  in  San  Francisco — two  days  when  a 
mob  of  her  citizens  set  upon  and  killed  unarmed,  defence- 
less foreigners,  because  they  were  foreigners  and  of  another 
race,  religion,  and  colour,  and  worked  for  what  wages 
they  could  get  There  were  some  public  men  so  timid, 
that,  seeing  this,  they  thought  that  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come ;  there  were  some  eminent  statesmen  whose 
names  I  am  ashamed  to  write  here,  who  began  to  think 
that  the  passage  in  the  Constitution  which  guarantees 
civil  and  religious  liberty  to  every  citizen  or  foreigner  was 
a  mistake.  But  there  were  also  some  men  who  were  not 
so  easily  frightened,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  we  had 
things  so  arranged  that  the  timid  m$n  could  wring  their 
hands  in  safety,  and  the  eminent  statesmen  utter  their 
doubts  without  hurting  anybody  or  anything.  And  in  the 
midst  of  this  I  got  a  note  from  Hop  Sing,  asking  me  to 
come  to  him  immediately. 

I  found  his  warehouse  closed  and  strongly  guarded  by 
the  police  against  any  possible  attack  of  the  rioters.  Hop 
Sing  admitted  me  through  a  barred  grating  with  his  usual 
imperturbable  calm,  but,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  with  more 
than  his  usual  seriousness.  Without  a  word  he  took  my 
hand  and  led  me  to  the  rear  of  the  room,  and  thence  down- 
stairs into  the  basement.  It  was  dimly  lighted,  but  there 
was  something  lying  on  the  floor  covered  by  a  shawl.  As 
I  approached  he  drew  the  shawl  away  with  a  sudden  ges- 
ture, and  revealed  Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan,  lying  there  dead  ! 

Dead,  my  reverend  friends,  dead  !  Stoned  to  death  in 
the  streets  of  San  Francisco,  in  the  year  of  grace,  eighteen 
hundred  and  sixty-nine,  by  a  mob  of  half-grown  boys  and 
Christian  school-children ! 


Wan  Lee,  the  Pagan.  223 

As  I  put  my  hand  reverently  upon  his  breast,  I  felt  some- 
thing crumbling  beneath  his  blouse.  I  looked  inquiringly 
at  Hop  Sing.  He  put  his  hand  between  the  folds  of  silk 
and  drew  out  something  with  the  first  bitter  smile  I  had 
ever  seen  on  the  face  of  that  pagan  gentleman. 

It  was  Wan  Lee's  porcelain  god,  crushed  by  a  stone 
from  the  hands  of  those  Christian  iconoclasts  I 


Jpeiregg  of  EeU  Dog* 

THE  first  intimation  given  of  the  eccentricity  of  the  testa- 
tor was,  I  think,  in  the  spring  of  1854.  He  was  at  that 
time  in  possession  of  a  considerable  property,  heavily 
mortgaged  to  one  friend,  and  a  wife  of  some  attraction, 
on  whose  affections  another  friend  held  an  encumbering 
lien.  One  day  it  was  found  that  he  had  secretly  dug,  or 
caused  to  be  dug,  a  deep  trap  before  the  front  door  of 
his  dwelling,  into  which  a  few  friends,  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  casually  and  familiarly  dropped.  This  circum- 
stance, slight  in  itself,  seemed  to  point  to  the  existence  of 
a  certain  humour  in  the  man,  which  might  eventually  get 
into  literature,  although  his  wife's  lover — a  man  of  quick 
discernment,  whose  leg  was  broken  by  the  fall — took  other 
views.  It  was  some  weeks  later,  that,  while  dining  with 
certain  other  friends  of  his  wife,  he  excused  himself  from 
the  table  to  quietly  reappear  at  the  front  window  with  a 
three-quarter-inch  hydraulic  pipe,  and  a  stream  of  water 
projected  at  the  assembled  company.  An  attempt  was 
made  to  take  public  cognisance  of  this ;  but  a  majority  of 
the  citizens  of  Red  Dog,  who  were  not  at  the  dinner, 
decided  that  a  man  had  a  right  to  choose  his  own  methods 
of  diverting  his  company.  Nevertheless,  there  were  some 
hints  of  his  insanity  ;  his  wife  recalled  other  acts  clearly 
attributable  to  dementia;  the  crippled  lover  argued  from 
his  own  experience  that  the  integrity  of  her  limbs  could 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  225 

only  be  secured  by  leaving  her  husband's  house ;  and  the 
mortgagee,  fearing  a  further  damage  to  his  property,  fore- 
closed. But  here  the  cause  of  all  this  anxiety  took  matters 
into  his  own  hands,  and  disappeared. 

When  we  next  heard  from  him,  he  had,  in  some  myste- 
rious way,  been  relieved  alike  of  his  wife  and  property,  and 
was  living  alone  at  Rockville,  fifty  miles  away,  and  editing 
a  newspaper.  But  that  originality  he  had  displayed  when 
dealing  with  the  problems  of  his  own  private  life,  when 
applied  to  politics  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Rockville  Van- 
guard," was  singularly  unsuccessful.  An  amusing  exaggera- 
tion, purporting  to  be  an  exact  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  the  opposing  candidate  had  murdered  his  Chinese 
laundryman,  was,  I  regret  to  say,  answered  only  by  assault 
and  battery.  A  gratuitous  and  purely  imaginative  descrip- 
tion of  a  great  religious  revival  in  Calamas,  in  which  the 
sheriff  of  the  county — a  notoriously  profane  sceptic — was 
alleged  to  have  been  the  chief  exhorter,  resulted  only  in  the 
withdrawal  of  the  county  advertising  from  the  paper.  In 
the  midst  of  this  practical  confusion  he  suddenly  died.  It 
was  then  discovered,  as  a  crowning  proof  of  his  absurdity, 
that  he  had  left  a  will,  bequeathing  his  entire  effects  to  a 
freckle-faced  maid-servant  at  the  Rockville  Hotel.  But  that 
absurdity  became  serious  when  it  was  also  discovered  that 
among  these  effects  were  a  thousand  shares  in  the  "  Rising 
Sun  Mining  Co.,"  which,  a  day  or  two  after  hisMemise,  and 
while  people  were  still  laughing  at  his  grotesque  benefaction, 
suddenly  sprang  into  opulence  and  celebrity.  Three  millions 
of  dollars  was  roughly  estimated  as  the  value  of  the  estate 
thus  wantonly  sacrificed  !  For  it  is  only  fair  to  state,  as  a 
just  tribute  to  the  enterprise  and  energy  of  that  young  and 
thriving  settlement,  that  there  was  not  probably  a  single 
citizen  who  did  not  feel  himself  better  able  to  control  the 
deceased  humorist's  property.  Some  had  expressed  a 

VOL.  in.  p 


226  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

doubt  of  their  ability  to  support  a  family ;  others  had  felt 
perhaps  too  keenly  the  deep  responsibility  resting  upon  them 
when  chosen  from  the  panel  as  jurors,  and  had  evaded  their 
public  duties  ;  a  few  had  declined  office  and  a  low  salary ; 
but  no  one  shrank  from  the  possibility  of  having  been  called 
upon  to  assume  the  functions  of  Peggy  Moffat — the  heiress. 
The  will  was  contested.  First  by  the  widow,  who,  it  now 
appeared,  had  never  been  legally  divorced  from  the  deceased; 
next  by  four  of  his  cousins,  who  awoke,  only  too  late,  to  a 
consciousness  of  his  moral  and  pecuniary  worth.  .  But  the 
humble  legatee — a  singularly  plain,  unpretending,  unedu- 
cated Western  girl — exhibited  a  dogged  pertinacity  in  claim- 
ing her  rights.  She  rejected  all  compromises.  A  rough 
sense  of  justice  in  the  community,  while  doubting  her  ability 
to  take  care  of  the  whole  fortune,  suggested  that  she  ought 
to  be  content  with  three  hundred  thousand  dollars.  "  She's 
bound  to  throw  even  that  away  on  some  derned  skunk  of  a 
man,  natoorally,  but  three  millions  is  too  much  to  give  a  chap 
for  makin'  her  onhappy.  It's  offering  a  temptation  to  cussed- 
ness."  The  only  opposing  voice  to  this  counsel  came  from 
the  sardonic  lips  of  Mr.  Jack  Hamlin.  "Suppose,"  sug- 
gested that  gentleman,  turning  abruptly  on  the  speaker — 
"  suppose,  when  you  won  twenty  thousand  dollars  of  me  last 
Friday  night — suppose  that  instead  of  handing  you  over  the 
money  as  I  did — suppose  I'd  got  up  on  my  hind  legs  and 
said,  'Look  yer,  Bill  Wethersbee,  you're  a  damned  fool. 
If  I  give  ye  that  twenty  thousand  you'll  throw  it  away  in 
the  first  skingame  in  'Frisco,  and  hand  it  over  to  the  first 
short  cardsharp  you'll  meet.  There's  a  thousand— enough 
for  you  to  fling  away — take  it  and  get ! '  Suppose  what  I'd 
said  to  you  was  the  frozen  truth,  and  you'd  know'd  it — 
would  that  have  been  the  square  thing  to  play  on  you  ? " 
But  here  Wethersbee  quickly  pointed  out  the  inefficiency  of 
the  comparison  by. stating  that  he  had  won  the  money  fairly 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  227 

with  a  stake.  "  And  how  do  you  know,"  demanded  Hamlin 
savagely,  bending  his  black  eyes  on  the  astounded  casuist — 
"  how  do  you  know  that  the  gal  hezn't  put  down  a  stake  ?  " 
The  man  stammered  an  unintelligible  reply.  The  gambler 
laid  his  white  hand  on  Wethersbee's  shoulder.  "  Look  yer, 
old  man,"  he  said,  "  every  gal  stakes  her  whole  pile — you 
can  bet  your  life  on  that — whatever's  her  little  game.  If 
she  took  to  keerds  instead  of  her  feelings — if  she'd  put  up 
*  chips'  instead  o'  body  and  soul,  she'd  bust  every  bank 
'twixt  this  and  'Frisco  !  You  hear  me  ?  " 

Somewhat  of  this  idea  was  conveyed,  I  fear  not  quite 
as  sentimentally,  to  Peggy  Moffat  herself.  The  best  legal 
wisdom  of  San  Francisco  retained  by  the  widow  and  rela- 
tives, took  occasion,  in  a  private  interview  with  Peggy,  to 
point  out  that  she  stood  in  the  quasi-criminal  attitude  of 
having  unlawfully  practised  upon  the  affections  of  an  insane 
elderly  gentleman,  with  a  view  of  getting  possession  of  his 
property,  and  suggested  to  her  that  no  vestige  of  her  moral 
character  would  remain  after  the  trial — if  she  persisted  in 
forcing  her  claims  to  that  issue.  It  is  said  that  Peggy,  on 
hearing  this,  stopped  washing  the  plate  she  had  in  her  hands, 
and,  twisting  the  towel  around  her  ringers,  fixed  her  small 
pale  blue  eyes  at  the  lawyer. 

"  And  ez  that  the  kind  o'  chirpin'  the  critters  keep  up  ?  " 

"  I  regret  to  say,  my  dear  young  lady,"  responded  the 
lawyer,  "  that  the  world  is  censorious.  I  must  add,"  he 
continued,  with  engaging  frankness,  "that  we  professional 
lawyers  are  apt  to  study  the  opinion  of  the  world — and 
that  such  will  be  the  theory  of — our  side." 

"  Then,"  said  Peggy  stoutly,  "  ez  I  allow  I've  got  to  go 
into  Court  to  defend  my  character,  I  might  as  well  pack 
in  them  three  millions  too." 

There  is  hearsay  evidence  that  Peg  added  to  this  speech 
a  wish  and  desire  to  "  bust  the  crust  *  of  her  traducers,  and, 


228  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

remarking  that  "  that  was  the  kind  of  hair-pin "  she  was, 
closed  the  conversation  with  an  unfortunate  accident  to  the 
plate,  that  left  a  severe  contusion  on  the  legal  brow  of  her 
companion.  But  this  story,  popular  in  the  bar-rooms  and 
gulches,  lacked  confirmation  in  higher  circles.  Better  au- 
thenticated was  the  legend  related  of  an  interview  with  her 
own  lawyer.  That  gentleman  had  pointed  out  to  her  the 
advantage  of  being  able  to  show  some  reasonable  cause  for 
the  singular  generosity  of  the  testator. 

"Although,"  he  continued,  "the  law  does  not  go  back 
of  the  will  for  reason  or  cause  for  its  provisions,  it  would  be 
a  strong  point  with  the  judge  and  jury — particularly  if  the 
theory  of  insanity  were  set  up — for  us  to  show  that  the  act 
was  logical  and  natural.  Of  course  you  have — I  speak  con- 
fidently, Miss  Moffat — certain  ideas  of  your  own  why  the 
late  Mr.  Byways  was  so  singularly  generous  to  you." 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  said  Peg  decidedly. 

"  Think  again.  Had  he  not  expressed  to  you — you 
understand  that  this  is  confidential  between  us,  although  I 
protest,  my  dear  young  lady,  that  I  see  no  reason  why  it 
should  not  be  made  public — had  he  not  given  utterance 
to  sentiments  of  a  nature  consistent  with  some  future 
matrimonial  relations  ?  "  But  here  Miss  Peg's  large  mouth, 
which  had  been  slowly  relaxing  over  her  irregular  teeth, 
stopped  him. 

"  If  you  mean  he  wanted  to  marry  me — No  ! " 

"  I  see.  But  were  there  any  conditions — of  course  you 
know  the  law  takes  no  cognisance  of  any  not  expressed  in 
the  will ;  but  still,  for  the  sake  of  mere  corroboration  of  the 
bequest — do  you  know  of  any  conditions  on  which  he  gave 
you  the  property?  " 

"  You  mean,  did  he  want  anything  in  return  ?" 

"Exactly,  my  dear  young  lady." 

Peg's  face  on  one  side  turned  a  deep  magenta  colour,  on 


A  n  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  229 

the  other  a  lighter  cherry,  while  her  nose  was  purple,  and 
her  forehead  an  Indian  red.  To  add  to  the  effect  of  this 
awkward  and  discomposing  dramatic  exhibition  of  embar- 
rassment, she  began  to  wipe  her  hands  on  her  dress,  and  sat 
silent. 

"  I  understand,"  said  the  lawyer  hastily.  "  No  matter — 
the  conditions  were  fulfilled." 

"  No,"  said  Peg  amazedly ;  "  how  could  they  be  until  he 
was  dead  ?  " 

It  was  the  lawyer's  turn  to  colour  and  grow  embarrassed. 

"  He  did  say  something,  and  make  some  conditions,"  con- 
tinued Peg,  with  a  certain  firmness  through  her  awkward- 
ness ;  "  but  that's  nobody's  business  but  mine  and  his'n. 
And  it's  no  call  o'  yours  or  theirs." 

"  But,  my  dear  Miss  Moffat,  if  these  very  conditions  were 
proofs  of  his  right  mind,  you  surely  would  not  object  to 
make  them  known,  if  only  to  enable  you  to  put  yourself  in 
a  condition  to  carry  them  out." 

"  But,"  said  Peg  cunningly,  "  'spose  you  and  the  Court 
didn't  think  'em  satisfactory  ?  'Spose  you  thought  'em  queer t 
Eh?" 

With  this  helpless  limitation  on  the  part  of  the  defence, 
the  case  came  to  trial.  Everybody  remembers  it :  how  for 
six  weeks  it  was  the  daily  food  of  Calaveras  County ;  how 
for  six  weeks  the  intellectual  and  moral  and  spiritual  com- 
petency of  Mr.  James  Byways  to  dispose  of  his  property 
was  discussed  with  learned  and  formal  obscurity  in  the 
Court,  and  with  unlettered  and  independent  prejudice  by 
camp-fires  and  in  bar-rooms.  At  the  end  of  that  time, 
when  it  was  logically  established  that  at  least  nine-tenths  of 
the  population  of  Calaveras  were  harmless  lunatics,  and 
everybody  else's  reason  seemed  to  totter  on  its  throne,  an 
exhausted  jury  succumbed  one  day  to  the  presence  of  Peg 
in  the  Court-room.  It  was  not  a  prepossessing  presence  at 


230  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

any  time ;  but  the  excitement,  and  an  injudicious  attempt 
to  ornament  herself,  brought  her  defects  into  a  glaring  relief 
that  was  almost  unreal.  Every  freckle  on  her  face  stood 
out  and  asserted  itself  singly ;  her  pale  blue  eyes,  that  gave 
no  indication  of  her  force  of  character,  were  weak  and 
wandering,  or  stared  blankly  at  the  judge ;  her  over-sized 
head,  broad  at  the  base,  terminating  in  the  scantiest  pos- 
sible light-coloured  braid  in  the  middle  of  her  narrow 
shoulders,  was  as  hard  and  uninteresting  as  the  wooden 
spheres  that  topped  the  railing  against  which  she  sat  The 
jury,  who  for  six  weeks  had  had  her  described  to  them  by 
the  plaintiffs  as  an  arch,  wily  enchantress,  who  had  sapped 
the  failing  reason  of  Jim  Byways,  revolted  to  a  man.  There 
was  something  so  appallingly  gratuitous  in  her  plainness, 
that  it  was  felt  that  three  millions  was  scarcely  a  compen- 
sation for  it.  "  Ef  that  money  was  give  to  her,  she  earned 
it  sure,  boys ;  it  wasn't  no  softness  of  the  old  man,"  said 
the  foreman.  When  the  jury  retired,  it  was  felt  that  she 
had  cleared  her  character.  When  they  re-entered  the  room 
with  their  verdict,  it  was  known  that  she  had  been  awarded 
three  millions  damages  for  its  defamation. 

She  got  the  money.  But  those  who  had  confidently 
expected  to  see  her  squander  it  were  disappointed.  On  the 
contrary,  it  was  presently  whispered  that  she  was  exceed- 
ingly penurious.  That  admirable  woman,  Mrs.  Stiver  of 
Red  Dog,  who  accompanied  her  to  San  Francisco  to  assist 
her  in  making  purchases,  was  loud  in  her  indignation.  "  She 
cares  more  for  two  bits  l  than  I  do  for  five  dollars.  She 
wouldn't  buy  anything  at  the  *  City  of  Paris '  because  it 
was  '  too  expensive/  and  at  last  rigged  herself  out,  a  perfect 
guy,  at  some  cheap  slop-shops  in  Market  Street.  And  after 
all  the  care  Jane  and  me  took  of  her,  giving  up  our  time 
and  experience  to  her,  she  never  so  much  as  made  Jane  a 
1  i.e.,  Twenty- five  cents. 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  231 

single  present. "  Popular  opinion,  which  regarded  Mrs.  Stiver's 
attention  as  purely  speculative,  was  not  shocked  at  this 
unprofitable  denouement;  but  when  Peg  refused  to  give 
anything  to  clear  the  mortgage  off  the  Presbyterian  Church, 
and  even  declined  to  take  shares  in  the  Union  Ditch,  con- 
sidered by  many  as  an  equally  sacred  and  safe  investment, 
she  began  to  lose  favour.  Nevertheless,  she  seemed  to  be 
as  regardless  of  public  opinion  as  she  had  been  before  the 
trial ;  took  a  small  house,  in  which  she  lived  with  an  old 
woman  who  had  once  been  a  fellow-servant  on,  apparently, 
terms  of  perfect  equality,  and  looked  after  her  money.  I 
wish  I  could  say  that  she  did  this  discreetly,  but  the  fact 
is,  she  blundered.  The  same  dogged  persistency  she  had 
displayed  in  claiming  her  rights  was  visible  in  her  unsuccess- 
ful ventures.  She  sunk  two  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  a 
worn-out  shaft  originally  projected  by  the  deceased  testator. 
She  prolonged  the  miserable  existence  of  the  "Rockville 
Vanguard"  long  after  it  had  ceased  to  interest  even  its 
enemies ;  she  kept  the  doors  of  the  Rockville  Hotel  open 
when  its  custom  had  departed  ;  she  lost  the  co-operation 
and  favour  of  a  fellow-capitalist  through  a  trifling  misunder- 
standing in  which  she  was  derelict  and  impenitent ;  she  had 
three  lawsuits  on  her  hands  that  could  have  been  settled 
for  a  trifle.  I  note  these  defects  to  show  that  she  was  by 
no  means  a  heroine.  I  quote  her  affair  with  Jack  Folinsbee 
to  show  that  she  was  scarcely  the  average  woman. 

That  handsome,  graceless  vagabond  had  struck  the  out- 
skirts of  Red  Dog  in  a  cyclone  of  dissipation  which  left  him 
a  stranded  but  still  rather  interesting  wreck  in  a  ruinous 
cabin  not  far  from  Peg  Moffat's  virgin  bower.  Pale,  crippled 
from  excesses,  with  a  voice  quite  tremulous  from  sympathetic 
emotion  more  or  less  developed  by  stimulants,  he  lingered 
languidly,  with  much  time  on  his  hands,  and  only  a  few 
neighbours.  In  this  fascinating  kind  of  general  deshabille 


232  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

of  morals,  dress,  and  the  emotions,  he  appeared  before  Peg 
Moffat.  More  than  that,  he  occasionally  limped  with  her 
through  the  settlement.  The  critical  eye  of  Red  Dog  took 
in  the  singular  pair ;  Jack — voluble,  suffering,  apparently 
overcome  by  remorse,  conscience,  vituperation,  and  disease  ; 
and  Peg,  open-mouthed,  high-coloured,  awkward,  yet  de- 
lighted ;  and  the  critical  eye  of  Red  Dog,  seeing  this,  winked 
meaningly  at  Rockville.  No  one  knew  what  passed  between 
them.  But  all  observed  that  one  summer  day  Jack  drove 
down  the  main  street  of  Red  Dog  in  an  open  buggy  with 
the  heiress  of  that  town  beside  him.  Jack,  albeit  a  trifle 
shaky,  held  the  reins  with  something  of  his  old  dash  \  and 
Mistress  Peggy,  in  an  enormous  bonnet  with  pearl-coloured 
ribbons,  a  shade  darker  than  her  hair,  holding  in  her  short 
pink-gloved  fingers  a  bouquet  of  yellow  roses,  absolutely 
glowed  crimson  in  distressful  gratification  over  the  dash- 
board. So  these  two  fared  on — out  of  the  busy  settlement, 
into  the  woods,  against  the  rosy  sunset.  Possibly  it  was  not 
a  pretty  picture ;  nevertheless,  as  the  dim  aisles  of  the  solemn 
pines  opened  to  receive  them,  miners  leaned  upon  their 
spades,  and  mechanics  stopped  in  their  toil  to  look  after 
them.  The  critical  eye  of  Red  Dog,  perhaps  from  the  sun, 
perhaps  from  the  fact  that  it  had  itself  once  been  young  and 
dissipated,  took  on  a  kindly  moisture  as  it  gazed. 

The  moon  was  high  when  they  returned.  Those  who  had 
waited  to  congratulate  Jack  on  this  near  prospect  of  a 
favourable  change  in  his  fortunes  were  chagrined  to  find 
that,  having  seen  the  lady  safe  home,  he  had  himself  de- 
parted from  Red  Dog.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  from 
Peg,  who,  on  the  next  day  and  ensuing  days,  kept  the  even 
tenor  of  her  way,  sunk  a  thousand  or  two  more  in  unsuccess- 
ful speculation,  and  made  no  change  in  her  habits  of 
personal  economy.  Weeks  passed  without  any  apparent 
sequel  to  this  romantic  idyl.  Nothing  was  known  definitely 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  233 

until  Jack,  a  month  later,  turned  up  in  Sacramento,  with  a 
billiard  cue  in  his  hand,  and  a  heart  overcharged  with 
indignant  emotion.  "  I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  gentle- 
men, in  confidence,"  said  Jack,  to  a  circle  of  sympathising 
players,  "  I  don't  mind  telling  you  regarding  this  thing,  that 
I  was  as  soft  on  that  freckled-faced,  red-eyed,  tallow-haired 
gal  as  if  she'd  been — a — a — an  actress.  And  I  don't  mind 
saying,  gentlemen,  that,  as  far  as  I  understand  women,  she 
was  just  as  soft  on  me !  You  kin  laugh,  but  it's  so.  One 
day  I  took  her  out  buggy-riding — in  style,  too — and  out  on 
the  road  I  offered  to  do  the  square  thing — just  as  if  she'd 
been  a  lady — offered  to  marry  her  then  and  there !  And 
what  did  she  do  ? "  said  Jack  with  an  hysterical  laugh — 
"  why,  blank  it  all !  offered  me  twenty -five  dollars  a  week 
allowance — pay  to  be  stopped  when  I  wasrit  at  home!" 
The  roar  of  laughter  that  greeted  this  frank  confession  was 
broken  by  a  quiet  voice  asking,  "And  what  did  you  say?" 

"  Say  ?  "  screamed  Jack,  "  I  just  told  her  to with  her 

money."  "  They  say,"  continued  the  quiet  voice,  "  that  you 
asked  her  for  the  loan  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to 
get  you  to  Sacramento — and  that  you  got  it  ?"  "Who  says 
so  ?  "  roared  Jack — "  show  me  the  blank  liar."  There  was 
a  dead  silence.  Then  the  possessor  of  the  quiet  voice,  Mr. 
Jack  Hamlin,  languidly  reached  under  the  table,  took  the 
chalk,  and  rubbing  the  end  of  his  billiard  cue,  began  with 
gentle  gravity.  "  It  was  an  old  friend  of  mine  in  Sacramento, 
a  man  with  a  wooden  leg,  a  game  eye,  three  fingers  on  his 
right  hand,  and  a  consumptive  cough.  Being  unable  natu- 
rally to  back  himself,  he  leaves  things  to  me.  So  for  the 
sake  of  argument,"  continued  Hamlin,  suddenly  laying  down 
his  cue,  and  fixing  his  wicked  black  eyes  on  the  speaker, 
"  say  it's  me  1 " 

I  am  afraid  that  this  story,  whether  truthful  or  not,  did 
not  tend  to  increase  Peg's  popularity  in  a  community  where 


234  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

recklessness  or  generosity  condoned  for  the  absence  of  all 
the  other  virtues ;  and  it  is  possible  also  that  Red  Dog  was 
no  more  free  from  prejudice  than  other  more  civilised  but 
equally  disappointed  match-makers.  Likewise,  during  the 
following  year,  she  made  several  more  foolish  ventures  and 
lost  heavily.  In  fact,  a  feverish  desire  to  increase  her  store 
at  almost  any  risk  seemed  to  possess  her.  At  last  it  was 
announced  that  she  intended  to  reopen  the  infelix  Rockville 
Hotel,  and  keep  it  herself.  Wild  as  this  scheme  appeared 
in  theory,  when  put  into  practical  operation  there  seemed 
to  be  some  chance  of  success.  Much,  doubtless,  was  owing 
to  her  practical  knowledge  of  hotel-keeping,  but  more  to 
her  rigid  economy  and  untiring  industry.  The  mistress  of 
millions,  she  cooked,  washed,  waited  on  table,  made  the 
beds,  and  laboured  like  a  common  menial.  Visitors  were 
attracted  by  this  novel  spectacle.  The  income  of  the  house 
increased  as  their  respect  for  the  hostess  lessened.  No 
anecdote  of  her  avarice  was  too  extravagant  for  current 
belief.  It  was  even  alleged  that  she  had  been  known  to 
carry  the  luggage  of  guests  to  their  rooms,  that  she  might 
anticipate  the  usual  porter's  gratuity.  She  denied  herself 
the  ordinary  necessaries  of  life.  She  was  poorly  clad,  she 
was  ill-fed — but  the  hotel  was  making  money. 

A  few  hinted  at  insanity;  others  shook  their  heads, 
and  said  a  curse  was  entailed  on  the  property.  It  was  be- 
lieved also,  from  her  appearance,  that  she  could  not  long 
survive  this  tax  on  her  energies,  and  already  there  was  dis- 
cussion as  to  the  probable  final  disposition  of  her  property. 
It  was  the  particular  fortune  of  Mr.  Jack  Hamlin  to  be  able 
to  set  the  world  right  on  this  and  other  questions  regarding 
her. 

A  stormy  December  evening  had  set  in  when  he  chanced 
to  be  a  guest  of  the  Rockville  Hotel.  He  had  during  the 
past  week  been  engaged  in  the  prosecution  of  his  noble 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  .  235 

profession  at  Red  Dog,  and  had,  in  the  graphic  language  of 
a  coadjutor,  "  cleared  out  the  town,  except  his  fare  in  the 
pockets  of  the  stage  driver ;  "  the  Red  Dog  "  Standard  "  had 
bewailed  his  departure  in  playful  obituary  verse,  beginning, 
"Dear  Johnny,  thou  hast  left  us,"  wherein  the  rhymes  "bereft 
us"  and  "deplore"  carried  a  vague  allusion  to  "  a  thousand 
dollars  more."  A  quiet  contentment  naturally  suffused  his 
personality,  and  he  was  more  than  usually  lazy  and  deliberate 
in  his  speech.  At  midnight,  when  he  was  about  to  retire, 
he  was  a  little  surprised,  however,  by  a  tap  on  his  door, 
followed  by  the  presence  of  Mistress  Peg  Moffat — heiress, 
and  landlady  of  Rockville  Hotel. 

Mr.  Hamlin,  despite  his  previous  defence  of  Peg,  had  no 
liking  for  her.  His  fastidious  taste  rejected  her  uncomeli- 
ness ;  his  habits  of  thought  and  life  were  all  antagonistic  to 
what  he  had  heard  of  her  niggardliness  and  greed.  As  she 
stood  there,  in  a  dirty  calico  wrapper,  still  redolent  with  the 
day's  cuisine,  crimson  with  embarrassment  and  the  recent 
heat  of  the  kitchen  range,  she  certainly  was  not  an  alluring 
apparition.  Happily  for  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  her 
loneliness,  and  the  infelix  reputation  of  the  man  before  her, 
she  was  at  least  a  safe  one.  And  I  fear  the  very  conscious- 
ness of  this  scarcely  relieved  her  embarrassment. 

"  I  wanted  to  say  a  few  words  to  ye  alone,  Mr.  Hamlin," 
she  began,  taking  an  unoffered  seat  on  the  end  of  his  port- 
manteau, "  or  I  shouldn't  hev'  intruded.  But  it's  the  only 
time  I  can  ketch  you,  or  you  me,  for  I'm  down  in  the 
kitchen  from  sun-up  till  now." 

She  stopped  awkwardly,  as  if  to  listen  to  the  wind  which 
was  rattling  against  the  windows,  and  spreading  a  film  of 
rain  against  the  opaque  darkness  without.  Then,  smooth- 
ing her  wrapper  over  her  knees,  she  remarked,  as  if  opening  a 
desultory  conversation,  "  Thar's  a  power  of  rain  outside." 

Mr.  Hamlin's  only  response  to  this  meteorological  obser- 


236  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

vation  was  a  yawn,  and  a  preliminary  tug  at  his  coat  as  he 
began  to  remove  it. 

"  I  thought  ye  couldn't  mind  doin'  me  a  favour,"  continued 
Peg,  with  a  hard,  awkward  laugh,  "  partik'ly  seein'  ez  folks 
allowed  you'd  sorter  been  a  friend  o'  mine,  and  hed  stood 
up  for  me  at  times  when  you  hedn't  any  partikler  call  to  do 
it  I  hevn't,"  she  continued,  looking  down  on  her  lap,  and 
following  with  her  ringer  and  thumb  a  seam  of  her  gown — "  I 
hevn't  so  many  friends  ez  slings  a  kind  word  for  me  these 
times  that  I  disremember  them."  Her  under  lip  quivered 
a  little  here,  and  after  vainly  hunting  for  a  forgotten  hand- 
kerchief, she  finally  lifted  the  hem  of  her  gown,  wiped  her 
snub  nose  upon  it,  but  left  the  tears  still  in  her  eyes  as  she 
raised  them  to  the  man. 

Mr.  Hamlin,  who  had  by  this  time  divested  himself  of 
his  coat,  stopped  unbuttoning  his  waistcoat,  and  looked  at 
her. 

"  Like  ez  not  thar'll  be  high  water  on  the  North  Fork,  ef 
this  rain  keeps  on,"  said  Peg,  as  if  apologetically,  looking 
toward  the  window. 

The  other  rain  having  ceased,  Mr.  Hamlin  began  to  un- 
button his  waistcoat  again. 

"  I  wanted  to  ask  ye  a  favour  about  Mr. — about — Jack 
Folinsbee,"  began  Peg  again,  hurriedly.  "  He's  ailin'  agin', 
and  is  mighty  low.  And  he's  losin'  a  heap  o'  money  here 
and  thar,  and  mostly  to  you.  You  cleaned  him  out  of  two 
thousand  dollars  last  night — all  he  had." 

"  Well,"  said  the  gambler  coldly. 

"  Well,  I  thought  ez  you  woz  a  friend  o'  mine,  I'd  ask  ye 
to  let  up  a  little  on  him,"  said  Peg,  with  an  affected  laugh.- 
"  You  kin  do  it.  Don't  let  him  play  with  ye." 

"  Mistress  Margaret  Moffat,"  said  Jack,  with  lazy  delibera- 
tion, taking  off  his  watch  and  beginning  to  wind  it  up,  "  ef 
you're  that  much  stuck  after  Jack  Folinsbee  you  kin  keep 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  237 

him  off  of  me  much  easier  than  I  kin.  You're  a  rich  woman ! 
Give  him  enough  money  to  break  my  bank,  or  break  himself 
for  good  and  all — but  don't  keep  him  foolin'  round  me,  in 
hopes  to  make  a  raise.  It  don't  pay,  Mistress  Moffat — it 
don't  pay  !  " 

A  finer  nature  than  Peg's  would  have  misunderstood  or 
resented  the  gambler's  slang,  and  the  miserable  truths  that 
underlay  it.  But  she  comprehended  him  instantly,  and  sat 
hopelessly  silent. 

"  Ef  you'll  take  my  advice,"  continued  Jack,  placing  his 
watch  and  chain  under  his  pillow,  and  quietly  unloosing  his 
cravat,  "you'll  quit  this  yer  foolin',  marry  that  chap,  and 
hand  over  to  him  the  money  and  the  money-makin'  that's 
killin'  you.  He'll  get  rid  of  it  soon  enough.  I  don't  say 
.this  because  /expect  to  git  it,  for  when  he's  got  that  much  of 
a  raise,  he'll  make  a  break  for  'Frisco,  and  lose  it  to  some 
first-class  sport  there.  I  don't  say  neither  that  you  mayn't 
be  in  luck  enough  to  reform  him.  I  don't  say  neither — and 
it's  a  derned  sight  more  likely — that  you  mayn't  be  luckier 
yet — and  he'll  up  and  die  afore  he  gits  rid  of  your  money. 
But  I  do  say  you'll  make  him  happy  now — and  ez  I  reckon 
you're  about  ez  badly  stuck  after  that  chap  ez  I  ever 
saw  any  woman,  you  won't  be  hurtin'  your  own  feelin's 
either  ! " 

The  blood  left  Peg's  face  as  she  looked  up.  "  But  that's 
why  I  can't  give  him  the  money — and  he  won't  marry  me 
without  it." 

Mr.  Hamlin's  hand  dropped  from  the  last  button  of  his 
waistcoat.  "Can't — give — him — the — money  ?"  he  repeated 
slowly. 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"  Because — because  I  love  him." 

Mr.    Hamlin   rebuttoned   his  waistcoat,   and  sat   down 


238  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

patiently  on  the  bed.  Peg  rose,  and  awkwardly  drew  the 
portmanteau  a  little  bit  nearer  to  him. 

"  When  Jim  Byways  left  me  this  yer  property,"  she  began, 
looking  cautiously  around,  "  he  left  it  to  me  on  conditions. 
Not  conditions  ez  was  in  his  written  will — but  conditions  ez 
was  spoken.  A  promise  I  made  him  in  this  very  room, 
Mr.  Hamlin — this  very  room,  and  on  that  very  bed  you're 
sittin'  on,  in  which  he  died." 

Like  most  gamblers,  Mr.  Hamlin  was  superstitious.  He 
rose  hastily  from  the  bed,  and  took  a  chair  beside  the 
window.  The  wind  shook  it  as  if  the  discontented  spirit  of 
Mr.  Byways  were  without,  reinforcing  his  last  injunction. 

"  I  don't  know  if  you  remember  him,"  said  Peg  feverishly. 
"  He  was  a  man  ez  hed  suffered.  All  that  he  loved — wife, 
fammerly,  friends — had  gone  back  on  him  !  He  tried  to 
make  light  of  it  afore  folk ;  but  with  me,  being  a  poor  gal, 
he  let  himself  out.  I  never  told  anybody  this — I  don't 
know  why  he  told  me — I  don't  know,"  continued  Peg  with 
a  sniffle,  "  why  he  wanted  to  make  me  unhappy  too.  But 
he  made  me  promise  that  if  he  left  me  his  fortune  I'd  never 
— never,  so  help  me  God — never  share  it  with  any  man  or 
woman  that  I  loved 7  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  hard  to 
keep  that  promise  then,  Mr.  Hamlin,  for  I  was  very  poor, 
and  hedn't  a  friend  nor  a  living  bein'  that  was  kind  to  me 
but  him." 

"  But  you've  as  good  as  broken  your  promise  already,"  said 
Hamlin  ;  "you've  given  Jack  money — as  I  know." 

"  Only  what  I  made  myself !  Listen  to  me,  Mr.  Hamlin. 
When  Jack  proposed  to  me,  I  offered  him  about  what  I  kal- 
kilated  I  could  earn  myself.  When  he  went  away,  and  was 
sick  and  in  trouble,  I  came  here  and  took  this  hotel.  I  knew 
that  by  hard  work  I  could  make  it  pay.  Don't  laugh  at  me, 
please.  I  did  work  hard,  and  did  make  it  pay — without 
takin'  one  cent  of  the  fortin'.  And  all  I  made,  workin'  by 


An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  239 

night  and  day,  I  gave  to  him  !  I  did,  Mr.  Hamlin.  I  ain't 
so  hard  to  him  as  you  think ;  though  I  might  be  kinder,  I 
know." 

Mr.  Hamlin  rose,  deliberately  resumed  his  coat,  watch, 
hat,  and  overcoat.  When  he  was  completely  dressed  again, 
he  turned  to  Peg. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you've  been  givin'  all  the 
money  you  make  here  to  this  A  i  first-class  cherubim  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  didn't  know  where  I  got  it.  O  Mr.  Hamlin, 
he  didn't  know  that ! " 

"  Do  I  understand  you,  that  he's  bin  bucking  agin  faro 
with  the  money  that  you  raised  on  hash  ?  And  you  makin' 
the  hash  ?  " 

"  But  he  didn't  know  that— he  wouldn't  hev  took  it  if  I'd 
told  him." 

"  No,  he'd  hev'  died  fust ! "  said  Mr.  Hamlin  gravely. 
"  Why,  he's  that  sensitive — is  Jack  Folinsbee — that  it  nearly 
kills  him  to  take  money  even  of  me.  But  where  does  this 
angel  reside  when  he  isn't  fightin'  the  tiger,  and  is,  so  to 
speak,  visible  to  the  naked  eye  ?  " 

"  He — he — stops  here,"  said  Peg,  with  an  awkward 
blush. 

"  I  see.  Might  I  ask  the  number  of  his  room — or  should 
I  be  a — disturbing  him  in  his  meditations  ?  "  continued  Jack 
Hamlin  with  grave  politeness. 

"  Oh,  then  you'll  promise  ?  And  you'll  talk  to  him,  and 
make  him  promise  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hamlin  quietly. 

"And  you'll  remember  he's  sick — very  sick?  His  room's 
No.  44,  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  Perhaps  I  had  better  go 
with  you  ?  " 

"  I'll  find  it." 

"  And  you  won't  be  too  hard  on  htm  ? " 

"  I'll  be  a  father  to  him,"  said  Hamlin  demurely,  as  he 


240  An  Heiress  of  Red  Dog. 

opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  hall.  But  he  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  then  turned  and  gravely  held  out  his 
hand.  Peg  took  it  timidly;  he  did  not  seem  quite  in 
earnest — and  his  black  eyes,  vainly  questioned,  indicated 
nothing.  But  he  shook  her  hand  warmly,  and  the  next 
moment  was  gone. 

He  found  the  room  with  no  difficulty.  A  faint  cough 
from  within,  and  a  querulous  protest,  answered  his  knock. 
Mr.  Hamlin  entered  without  further  ceremony.  A  sicken- 
ing smell  of  drugs,  a  palpable  flavour  of  stale  dissipation, 
and  the  wasted  figure  of  Jack  Folinsbee,  half  dressed, 
extended  upon  the  bed,  greeted  him.  Mr.  Hamlin  was, 
for  an  instant,  startled.  There  were  hollow  circles  round 
the  sick  man's  eyes,  there  was  palsy  in  his  trembling  limbs, 
there  was  dissolution  in  his  feverish  breath. 

"  What's  up  ?  "  he  asked  huskily  and  nervously. 

"  I  am,  and  I  want^w  to  get  up  too." 

"  I  can't,  Jack.  I'm  regularly  done  up."  He  reached 
his  shaking  hand  towards  a  glass  half-filled  with  suspicious, 
pungent-smelling  liquid,  but  Mr.  Hamlin  stayed  it 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  back  that  two  thousand  dollars  you 
lost?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  get  up  and  marry  that  woman  downstairs." 

Folinsbee  laughed  half  hysterically,  half  sardonically. 

"  She  won't  give  it  to  me." 

"No,  but /will." 

"  You  9" 

"Yes." 

Folinsbee,  with  an  attempt  at  a  reckless  laugh,  rose, 
trembling  and  with  difficulty,  to  his  swollen  feet.  Hamlin 
eyed  him  narrowly,  and  then  bade  him  lie  down  again. 
**  To-morrow  will  do,"  he  said,  "  and  then  " 

"If  I  don't" 


A  n  Heiress  of  Red  Dog.  241 

"  If  you  don't,"  responded  Hamlin,  "  why,  I'll  just  wade 
in  and  cut  you  out !  " 

But  on  the  morrow  Mr.  Hamlin  was  spared  that  pos- 
sible act  of  disloyalty.  For  in  the  night  the  already 
hesitating  spirit  of  Mr.  Jack  Folinsbee  took  flight  on  the 
wings  of  the  south-east  storm.  When  or  how  it  happened, 
nobody  knew.  Whether  this  last  excitement  and  the  near 
prospect  of  matrimony,  or  whether  an  over-dose  of  ano- 
dyne had  hastened  his  end,  was  never  known.  I  only 
know  that  when  they  came  to  awaken  him  the  next  morn- 
ing, the  best  that  was  left  of  him — a  face  still  beautiful 
and  boylike — looked  up  tearful  at  the  eyes  of  Peg  Moffat. 
"  It  serves  me  right — it's  a  judgment,"  she  said  in  a  low 
whisper  to  Jack  Hamlin,  "for  God  knew  that  I'd  broken 
my  word  and  willed  all  my  property  to  him." 

She  did  not  long  survive  him.  Whether  Mr.  Hamlin 
ever  clothed  with  action  the  suggestion  indicated  in  his 
speech  to  the  lamented  Jack  that  night,  is  not  on  record. 
He  was  always  her  friend,  and  on  her  demise  became  her 
executor.  But  the  bulk  of  her  property  was  left  to  a  dis- 
tant relation  of  handsome  Jack  Folinsbee,  and  so  passed 
out  of  the  control  of  Red  Dog  for  ever. 


VOL.  ni. 


(      242       ) 


on  tfje  15eacl), 


HE  lived  beside  a  river  that  emptied  into  a  great  ocean. 
The  narrow  strip  of  land  that  lay  between  him  and  the 
estuary  was  covered  at  high  tide  by  a  shining  film  of  water, 
at  low  tide  with  the  cast-up  offerings  of  sea  and  shore.  Logs 
yet  green,  and  saplings  washed  away  from  inland  banks, 
battered  fragments  of  wrecks  and  orange  crates  of  bamboo, 
broken  into  tiny  rafts  yet  odorous  with  their  lost  freight, 
lay  in  long  successive  curves — the  fringes  and  over-lappings 
of  the  sea.  At  high  noon  the  shadow  of  a  seagull's  wing, 
or  a  sudden  flurry  and  gray  squall  of  sandpipers,  themselves 
but  shadows,  was  all  that  broke  the  monotonous  glare  of 
the  level  sands. 

He  had  lived  there  alone  for  a  twelvemonth.  Although 
but  a  few  miles  from  a  thriving  settlement,  during  that  time 
his  retirement  had  never  been  intruded  upon,  his  seclusion 
remained  unbroken.  In  any  other  community  he  might 
have  been  the  subject  of  rumour  or  criticism,  but  the  miners 
at  Camp  Rogue  and  the  traders  at  Trinidad  Head,  themselves 
individual  and  eccentric,  were  profoundly  indifferent  to  all 
other  forms  of  eccentricity  or  heterodoxy  that  did  not  come 
in  contact  with  their  own.  And  certainly  there  was  no  form 
of  eccentricity  less  aggressive  than  that  of  a  hermit,  had  they 
chosen  to  give  him  that  appellation.  But  they  did  not  even 
do  that,  probably  from  lack  of  interest  or  perception.  To 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  243 

the  various  traders  who  supplied  his  small  wants  he  was 
known  as  "  Kernel,"  "Judge,"  and  "  Boss."  To  the  general 
public  "  The  Man  on  the  Beach  "  was  considered  a  suffi- 
ciently distinguishing  title.  His  name,  his  occupation,  rank, 
or  antecedents,  nobody  cared  to  inquire.  Whether  this 
arose  from  a  fear  of  reciprocal  inquiry  and  interest,  or  from 
the  profound  indifference  before  referred  to,  I  cannot  say. 

He  did  not  look  like  a  hermit.  A  man  yet  young,  erect, 
well-dressed,  clean-shaven,  with  a  low  voice,  and  a  smile 
half-melancholy,  half-cynical,  was  scarcely  the  conventional 
idea  of  a  solitary.  His  dwelling,  a  rude  improvement  on  a 
fisherman's  cabin,  had  all  the  severe  exterior  simplicity  of 
frontier  architecture,  but  within  it  was  comfortable  and 
wholesome.  Three  rooms— a  kitchen,  a  living-room,  and  a 
bedroom — were  all  it  contained. 

He  had  lived  there  long  enough  to  see  the  dull  monotony 
of  one  season  lapse  into  the  dull  monotony  of  the  other. 
The  bleak  north-west  trade-winds  had  brought  him  mornings 
of  staring  sunlight  and  nights  of  fog  and  silence.  The 
warmer  south-west  trades  had  brought  him  clouds,  rain,  and 
the  transient  glories  of  quick  grasses  and  ordorous  beach 
blossoms.  But  summer  or  winter,  wet  or  dry  season,  on 
one  side  rose  always  the  sharply-defined  hills  with  their 
changeless  background  of  evergreens  ;  on  the  other  side 
stretched  always  the  illimitable  ocean  as  sharply  defined 
against  the  horizon,  and  as  unchanging  in  its  hue.  The 
onset  of  spring  and  autumn  tides,  some  changes  among  his 
feathered  neighbours,  the  footprints  of  certain  wild  animals 
along  the  river's  bank,  and  the  hanging  out  of  parti-coloured 
signals  from  the  wooded  hillside  far  inland,  helped  him  to 
record  the  slow  months.  On  summer  afternoons,  when  the 
sun  sank  behind  a  bank  of  fog  that,  moving  solemnly  shore- 
ward, at  last  encompassed  him  and  blotted  out  sea  and  sky, 
his  isolation  was  complete.  The  damp  gray  sea  that  flowed 


244  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

above  and  around  and  about  him  always  seemed  to  shut 
out  an  intangible  world  beyond,  and  to  be  the  only  real 
presence.  The  booming  of  breakers  scarce  a  dozen  rods 
from  his  dwelling  was  but  a  vague  and  unintelligible  sound, 
or  the  echo  of  something  past  for  ever.  Every  morning 
when  the  sun  tore  away  the  misty  curtain  he  awoke,  dazed 
and  bewildered,  as  upon  a  new  world.  The  first  sense  of 
oppression  over,  he  came  to  love  at  last  this  subtle  spirit 
of  oblivion ;  and  at  night,  when  its  cloudy  wings  were  folded 
over  his  cabin,  he  would  sit  alone  with  a  sense  of  security 
he  had  never  felt  before.  On  such  occasions  he  was  apt 
to  leave  his  door  open,  and  listen  as  for  footsteps ;  for  what 
might  not  come  to  him  out  of  this  vague,  nebulous  world 
beyond?  Perhaps  even  she;  for  this  strange  solitary  was 
not  insane  nor  visionary.  He  was  never  in  spirit  alone. 
For  night  and  day,  sleeping  or  waking,  pacing  the  beach 
or  crouching  over  his  driftwood  fire,  a  woman's  face  was 
always  before  him — the  face  for  whose  sake  and  for  cause 
of  whom  he  sat  there  alone.  He  saw  it  in  the  morning 
sunlight ;  it  was  her  white  hands  that  were  lifted  from  the 
crested  breakers ;  it  was  the  rustling  of  her  skirt  when  the 
sea  wind  swept  through  the  beach  grasses ;  it  was  the 
loving  whisper  of  her  low  voice  when  the  long  waves  sank 
and  died  among  the  sedge  and  rushes.  She  was  as 
omnipresent  as  sea  and  sky  and  level  sand.  Hence,  when 
the  fog  wiped  them  away,  she  seemed  to  draw  closer  to 
him  in  the  darkness.  On  one  or  two  more  gracious  nights 
in  midsummer,  when  the  influence  of  the  fervid  noonday 
sun  was  still  felt  on  the  heated  sands,  the  warm  breath  of 
the  fog  touched  his  cheek  as  if  he  had  been  hers,  and  the 
tears  started  to  his  eyes. 

Before  the  fogs  came — for  he  arrived  there  in  winter — 
he  had  found  surcease  and  rest  in  the  steady  glow  of  a 
lighthouse  upon  the  little  promontory  a  league  below  his 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  245 

habitation.  Even  on  the  darkest  nights,  and  in  the 
tumults  of  storm,  it  spoke  to  him  of  a  patience  that  was 
enduring  and  a  steadfastness  that  was  immutable.  Later 
on  he  found  a  certain  dumb  companionship  in  an  uprooted 
tree,  which,  floating  down  the  river,  had  stranded  hopelessly 
upon  his  beach,  but  in  the  evening  had  again  drifted  away. 
Rowing  across  the  estuary  a  day  or  two  afterward,  he 
recognised  the  tree  again  from  a  "  blaze  "  of  the  settler's  axe 
still  upon  its  trunk.  He  was  not  surprised  a  week  later  to 
find  the  same  tree  in  the  sands  before  his  dwelling,  or  that 
the  next  morning  it  should  be  again  launched  on  its  pur- 
poseless wanderings.  And  so,  impelled  by  wind  or  tide, 
but  always  haunting  his  seclusion,  he  would  meet  it 
voyaging  up  the  river  at  the  flood,  or  see  it  tossing  among 
the  breakers  on  the  bar,  but  always  with  the  confidence  of 
its  returning  sooner  or  later  to  an  anchorage  beside  him. 
After  the  third  month  of  his  self-imposed  exile,  he  was 
forced  into  a  more  human  companionship,  that  was  brief 
but  regular.  He  was  obliged  to  have  menial  assistance. 
While  he  might  have  eaten  his  bread  "  in  sorrow  "  carelessly 
and  mechanically,  if  it  had  been  prepared  for  him,  the 
occupation  of  cooking  his  own  food  brought  the  vulgarity 
and  materialness  of  existence  so  near  to  his  morbid  sensi- 
tiveness that  he  could  not  eat  the  meal  he  had  himself 
prepared.  He  did  not  yet  wish  to  die,  and  when  starva- 
tion or  society  seemed  to  be  the  only  alternative,  he  chose 
the  latter.  An  Indian  woman,  so  hideous  as  to  scarcely 
suggest  humanity,  at  stated  times  performed  for  him  these 
offices.  When  she  did  not  come,  which  was  not  infrequent, 
he  did  not  eat. 

Such  was  the  mental  and  physical  condition  of  the  Man 
on  the  Beach  on  January  i,  1869. 

It  was  a  still,  bright  day,  following  a  week  of  rain  and 


246  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

wind.  Low  down  the  horizon  still  lingered  a  few  white 
flecks — the  flying  squadrons  of  the  storm — as  vague  as 
distant  sails.  Southward  the  harbour  bar  whitened  occa- 
sionally but  lazily ;  even  the  turbulent  Pacific  swell  stretched 
its  length  wearily  upon  the  shore.  And  toiling  from  the 
settlement  over  the  low  sand  dunes,  a  carriage  at  last  halted 
half  a  mile  from  the  solitary's  dwelling. 

"I  reckon  ye'll  hev  to  git  out  here,"  said  the  driver, 
pulling  up  to  breathe  his  panting  horses.  "  Ye  can't  git 
any  nigher." 

There  was  a  groan  of  execration  from  the  interior  of  the 
vehicle,  a  hysterical  little  shriek,  and  one  or  two  shrill 
expressions  of  feminine  disapprobation,  but  the  driver 
moved  not.  At  last  a  masculine  head  expostulated  from 
the  window :  "  Look  here ;  you  agreed  to  take  us  to  the 
house.  Why,  it's  a  mile  away  at  least !  " 

"  Thar,  or  tharabouts,  I  reckon,"  said  the  driver,  coolly 
crossing  his  legs  on  the  box. 

"  It's  no  use  talking ;  /  can  never  walk  through  this  sand 
and  horrid  glare,"  said  a  female  voice  quickly  and  im- 
peratively. Then,  apprehensively,  "  Well  of  all  the  places  ! " 

"Well,  I  never!" 

"This  does  exceed  everything." 

"It's  really  too  idiotic  for  anything." 

It  was  noticeable  that  while  the  voices  betrayed  the 
difference  of  age  and  sex,  they  bore  a  singular  resemblance 
to  each  other,  and  a  certain  querulousness  of  pitch  that  was 
dominant. 

"  I  reckon  I've  gone  about  as  fur  as  I  allow  to  go  with 
them  hosses,"  continued  the  driver  suggestively,  "and  as 
time's  vallyble,  ye'd  better  onload." 

"  The  wretch  does  not  mean  to  leave  us  here  alone  ? " 
said  a  female  voice  in  shrill  indignation.  "  You'll  wait  for 
us,  driver  ?  "  said  a  masculine  voice  confidently. 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  247 

"  How  long  ?  "  asked  the  driver. 

There  was  a  hurried  consultation  within.  The  words 
"  Might  send  us  packing,"  "  May  take  all  night  to  get  him 
to  listen  to  reason,"  "  Bother  !  whole  thing  over  in  ten 
minutes,"  came  from  the  window.  The  driver  meanwhile 
had  settled  himself  back  in  his  seat,  and  whistled  in  patient 
contempt  of  a  fashionable  fare  that  didn't  know  its  own  mind 
nor  destination.  Finally,  the  masculine  head  was  thrust 
out,  and,  with  a  certain  potential  air  of  judicially  ending  a 
difficulty,  said — 

"  You're  to  follow  us  slowly,  and  put  up  your  horses  in 
the  stable  or  barn  until  we  want  you." 

An  ironical  laugh  burst  from  the  driver.  "  Oh  yes — in 
the  stable  or  barn — in  course.  But,  my  eyes  sorter  failin' 
me,  mebbee,  now,  some  ev  you  younger  folks  will  kindly 
pint  out  the  stable  or  barn  of  the  Kernel's.  Woa! — will 
ye  ? — woa  !  Give  me  a  chance  to  pick  out  that  there  barn 
or  stable  to  put  ye  in ! "  This  in  arch  confidence  to  the 
horses,  who  had  not  moved. 

Here  the  previous  speaker,  rotund,  dignified,  and  elderly, 
alighted  indignantly,  closely  followed  by  the  rest  of  the 
party,  two  ladies  and  a  gentleman.  One  of  the  ladies  was 
past  the  age,  but  not  the  fashion,  of  youth,  and  her  Parisian 
dress  clung  over  her  wasted  figure  and  well-bred  bones 
artistically  if  not  gracefully ;  the  younger  lady,  evidently 
her  daughter,  was  crisp  and  pretty,  and  carried  off  the 
aquiline  nose  and  aristocratic  emaciation  of  her  mother 
with  a  certain  piquancy  and  a  dash  that  was  charming. 
The  gentleman  was  young,  thin,  with  the  family  charac- 
teristics, but  otherwise  indistinctive. 

With  one  accord  they  all  faced  directly  toward  the  spot 
indicated  by  the  driver's  whip.  Nothing  but  the  bare,  bleak, 
rectangular  outlines  of  the  cabin  of  the  Man  on  the  Beach 
met  their  eyes.  All  else  was  a  desolate  expanse,  unrelieved 


248  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

by  any  structure  higher  than  the  tussocks  of  scant  beach 
grass  that  clothed  it.  They  were  so  utterly  helpless  that 
the  driver's  derisive  laughter  gave  way  at  last  to  good 
humour  and  suggestion.  "  Look  yer,"  he  said  finally,  "  I 
don't  know  ez  it's  your  fault  you  don't  know  this  kentry  ez 
well  ez  you  do  Yurup ;  so  I'll  drag  this  yer  team  over  to 
Robinson's  on  the  river,  give  the  horses  a  bite,  and  then 
meander  down  this  yeriidge,  and  wait  for  ye.  Ye'll  see  me 
from  the  Kernel's."  And  without  waiting  for  a  reply,  he 
swung  his  horses'  heads  toward  the  river,  and  rolled  away. 

The  same  querulous  protest  that  had  come  from  the 
windows  arose  from  the  group,  but  vainly.  Then  followed 
accusations  and  recrimination.  "  It's  your  fault ;  you  might 
have  written,  and  had  him  meet  us  at  the  settlement" 
"  You  wanted  to  take  him  by  surprise  ! "  "I  didn't." 
"  You  know  if  I'd  written  that  we  were  coming,  he'd  have 
taken  good  care  to  run  away  from  us."  "  Yes,  to  some  more 
inaccessible  place."  "  There  can  be  none  worse  than  this," 
&c,  &c.  But  it  was  so  clearly  evident  that  nothing  was 
to  be  done  but  to  go  forward,  that  even  in  the  midst  of 
their  wrangling  they  straggled  on  in  Indian  file  toward  the 
distant  cabin,  sinking  ankle-deep  in  the  yielding  sand, 
punctuating  their  verbal  altercation  with  sighs,  and  only 
abating  it  at  a  scream  from  the  elder  lady. 

"Where's  Maria?" 

"  Gone  on  ahead  ! "  grunted  the  younger  gentleman,  in 
a  bass  voice,  so  incongruously  large  for  him  that  it  seemed 
to  have  been  a  ventriloquistic  contribution  by  somebody 
else. 

It  was  too  true.  Maria,  after  adding  her  pungency  to 
the  general  conversation,  had  darted  on  ahead.  But  alas  ! 
that  swift  Camilla,  after  scouring  the  plain  some  two 
hundred  feet  with  her  demitrain,  came  to  .grief  on  an 
unbending  tussock  and  sat  down,  panting  but  savage.  As 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  249 

they  plodded  wearily  toward  her,  she  bit  her  red  lips, 
smacked  them  on  her  cruel  little  white  teeth  like  a  festive 
and  sprightly  ghoul,  and  lisped  : — 

"  You  do  look  so  like  guys !  For  all  the  world  like 
those  English  shopkeepers  we  met  on  the  Righi,  doing  the 
three-guinea  excursion  in  their  Sunday  clothes  ! " 

Certainly  the  spectacle  of  these  exotically  plumed  bipeds, 
whose  fine  feathers  were  already  bedrabbled  by  sand  and 
growing  limp  in  the  sea  breeze,  was  somewhat  dissonant 
with  the  rudeness  of  sea  and  sky  and  shore.  A  few  gulls 
screamed  at  them ;  a  loon,  startled  from  the  lagoon,  arose 
shrieking  and  protesting,  with  painfully  extended  legs,  in 
obvious  burlesque  of  the  younger  gentleman.  The  elder 
lady  felt  the  justice  of  her  gentle  daughter's  criticism,  and 
retaliated  with  simple  directness — 

"Your  skirt  is  ruined,  your  hair  is  coming  down,  your 
hat  is  half  off  your  head,  and  your  shoes — in  Heaven's 
name,  Maria  !  what  have  you  done  with  your  shoes  ?  " 

Maria  had  exhibited  a  slim  stockinged  foot  from  under 
her  skirt.  It  was  scarcely  three  fingers  broad,  with  an  arch 
as  patrician  as  her  nose.  "  Somewhere  between  here  and 
the  carriage,"  she  answered  ;  "  Dick  can  run  back  and  find 
it,  while  he  is  looking  for  your  brooch,  mamma.  Dick's  so 
obliging." 

The  robust  voice  of  Dick  thundered,  but  the  wasted 
figure  of  Dick  feebly  ploughed  its  way  back,  and  returned 
with  the  missing  buskin.  • 

"  I  may  as  well  carry  them  in  my  hand  like  the  market 
girls  at  Saumur,  for  we  have  got  to  wade  soon,"  said  Miss 
Maria,  sinking  her  own  terrors  in  the  delightful  contempla- 
tion of  the  horror  in  her  parent's  face,  as  she  pointed  to  a 
shining  film  of  water  slowly  deepening  in  a  narrow  swale  in 
the  sands  between  them  and  the  cabin. 

"  It's  the  tide,"  said  the  elder  gentleman.     "  If  we  intend 


250  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

to  go  on  we  must  hasten ;  permit  me,  my  dear  madam,* 
and  before  she  could  reply  he  had  lifted  the  astounded 
matron  in  his  arms  and  made  gallantly  for  the  ford.  The 
gentle  Maria  cast  an  ominous  eye  on  her  brother,  who, 
with  manifest  reluctance,  performed  for  her  the  same  office. 
But  that  acute  young  lady  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  preced- 
ing figure  of  the  elder  gentleman,  and  seeing  him  suddenly 
and  mysteriously  disappear  to  his  armpits,  unhesitatingly 
threw  herself  from  her  brother's  protecting  arms — an 
action  which  instantly  precipitated  him  into  the  water — 
and  paddled  hastily  to  the  opposite  bank,  where  she  even- 
tually assisted  in  pulling  the  elderly  gentleman  out  of  the 
hollow  into  which  he  had  fallen,  and  in  rescuing  her 
mother,  who  floated  helplessly  on  the  surface,  upheld  by 
her  skirts,  like  a  gigantic  and  variegated  water-lily.  Dick 
followed  with  a  single  gaiter.  In  another  minute  they  were 
safe  on  the  opposite  bank. 

The  elder  lady  gave  way  to  tears  ;  Maria  laughed  hyste- 
rically ;  Dick  mingled  a  bass  oath  with  the  now  audible 
surf;  the  elder  gentleman,  whose  florid  face  the  salt  water 
had  bleached,  and  whose  dignity  seemed  to  have  been 
washed  away,  accounted  for  both  by  saying  he  thought  it 
was  a  quicksand. 

"  It  might  have  been,"  said  a  quiet  voice  behind  them  ; 
"you  should  have  followed  the  sand-dunes  half  a  mile 
farther  to  the  estuary." 

They  turned  instantly  at  the  voice.  It  was  that  of  the  Man 
on  the  Beach.  They  all  rose  to  their  feet  and  uttered 
together,  save  one,  the  single  exclamation,  "  James  ! "  The 
elder  gentleman  said,  "Mr  North,"  and,  with  a  slight 
resumption  of  his  former  dignity,  buttoned  his  coat  over 
his  damp  shirt  front. 

There  was  a  silence,  in  which  the  Man  on  the  Beach 
looked  gravely  down  upon  them.  If  they  had  intended  to 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  251 

impress  him  by  any  suggestion  of  a  gay,  brilliant,  and  sen- 
suous world  beyond  in  their  own  persons,  they  had  failed, 
and  they  knew  it.  Keenly  alive  as  they  had  always  been 
to  external  prepossession,  they  felt  that  they  looked  forlorn 
and  ludicrous,  and  that  the  situation  lay  in  his  hands.  The 
elderly  lady  again  burst  into  tears  of  genuine  distress, 
Maria  coloured  over  her  cheek-bones,  and  Dick  stared  at 
the  ground  in  sullen  disquiet. 

"  You  had  better  get  up,"  said  the  Man  on  the  Beach, 
after  a  moment's  thought,  "  and  come  up  to  the  cabin.  I 
cannot  offer  you  a  change  of  garments,  but  you  can  dry 
them  by  the  fire." 

They  all  rose  together,  and  again  said  in  chorus,  "James !" 
but  this  time  with  an  evident  effort  to  recall  some  speech  or 
action  previously  resolved  upon  and  committed  to  memory. 
The  elder  lady  got  so  far  as  to  clasp  her  hands  and  add, 
"  You  have  not  forgotten  us,  James,  O  James ! "  the 
younger  gentleman  to  attempt  a  brusque  "Why,  Jim,  old 
boy,"  that  ended  in  querulous  incoherence;  the  young 
lady  to  cast  a  half-searching,  half-coquettish  look  at  him ; 
and  the  old  gentleman  to  begin,  "  Our  desire,  Mr.  North " 
— but  the  effort  was  futile.  Mr.  James  North,  standing 
before  them  with  folded  arms,  looked  from  the  one  to  the 
other. 

"  I  have  not  thought  much  of  you  for  a  twelvemonth," 
he  said  quietly,  "  but  I  have  not  forgotten  you.  Come  ! " 

He  led  the  way  a  few  steps  in  advance,  they  following 
silently.  In  this  brief  interview  they  felt  he  had  resumed 
the  old  dominance  and  independence,  against  which  they 
had  rebelled ;  more  than  that,  in  this  half  failure  of  their 
first  concerted  action  they  had  changed  their  querulous 
bickerings  to  a  sullen  distrust  of  each  other,  and  walked 
moodily  apart  as  they  followed  James  North  into  his  house. 
A  fire  blazed  brightly  on  the  hearth  ;  a  few  extra  seats  were 


252  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

quickly  extemporised  from  boxes  and  chests,  and  the  elder 
lady,  with  the  skirt  of  her  dress  folded  over  her  knees — 
looking  riot  unlike  an  exceedingly  overdressed  jointed  doll — 
dried  her  flounces  and  her  tears  together.  Miss  Maria  took 
in  the  scant  appointments  of  the  house  in  one  single  glance, 
and  then  fixed  her  eyes  upon  James  North,  who,  the  least 
concerned  of  the  party,  stood  before  them,  grave  and 
patiently  expectant. 

"Well,"  began  the  elder  lady  in  a  high  key,  "after  all 
this  worry  and  trouble  you  have  given  us,  James,  haven't 
you  anything  to  say  ?  Do  you  know — have  you  the  least 
idea  what  you  are  doing  ?  what  egregious  folly  you  are  com- 
mitting? what  everybody  is  saying?  Eh?  Heavens  and 
earth  !  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  You  are  my  father's  brother's  widow,  Aunt  Mary,"  re- 
turned James  quietly.  "  If  I  am  committing  any  folly  it 
only  concerns  myself;  if  I  cared  for  what  people  said  I 
should  not  be  here ;  if  I  loved  society  enough  to  appreciate 
its  good  report  I  should  stay  with  it." 

"  But  they  say  you  have  run  away  from  society  to  pine 
alone  for  a  worthless  creature — a  woman  who  has  used  you, 
as  she  has  used  and  thrown  away  others — a  " 

"  A  woman,"  chimed  in  Dick,  who  had  thrown  himself 
on  James's  bed  while  his  patent  leathers  were  drying — "  a 

woman  that  all  the  fellers  know  never  intended  " here, 

however,  he  met  James  North's  eye,  and  muttering  some- 
thing about  "  whole  thing  being  too  idiotic  to  talk  about," 
relapsed  into  silence. 

"You  know,"  continued  Mrs.  North,  "that  while  we  and 
all  our  set  shut  our  eyes  to  your  very  obvious  relations  with 
that  woman,  and  while  I  myself  often  spoke  of  it  to  others 
as  a  simple  flirtation,  and  averted  a  scandal  for  your  sake, 
and  when  the  climax  was  reached,  and  she  herself  gave  you 
an  opportunity  to  sever  your  relations,  and  nobody  need 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  253 

have  been  wiser — and  she'd  have  had  all  the  blame — and 
it's  only  what  she's  accustomed  to — you — you  !  you,  James 
North  ! — you  must  nonsensically  go,  and,  by  this  extrava- 
gant piece  of  idiocy  and  sentimental  tomfoolery,  let  every- 
body see  how  serious  the  whole  affair  was,  and  how  deep 
it  hurt  you  !  and  here  in  this  awful  place,  alone — where 
you're  half  drowned  to  get  to  it,  and  are  willing  to  be  wholly 
drowned  to  get  away !  Oh,  don't  talk  to  me  !  I  won't 
hear  it — it's  just  too  idiotic  for  anything  ! " 

The  subject  of  this  outburst  neither  spoke  nor  moved  a 
single  muscle. 

"  Your  aunt,  Mr.  North,  speaks  excitedly,"  said  the  elder 
gentleman;  "yet  I  think  she  does  not  over-estimate  the 
unfortunate  position  in  which  your  odd  fancy  places  you. 
I  know  nothing  of  the  reasons  that  have  impelled  you  to 
this  step ;  I  only  know  that  the  popular  opinion  is  that  the 
cause  is  utterly  inadequate.  You  are  still  young,  with  a 
future  before  you.  I  need  not  say  how  your  present  con- 
duct may  imperil  that.  If  you  expected  to  achieve  any 
good — even  to  your  own  satisfaction — by  this  conduct " • 

"Yes — if  there  was  anything  to  be  gained  by  it  J"  broke 
in  Mrs.  North. 

"  If  you  ever  thought  she'd  come  back  ! — but  that  kind 

of  woman  don't  They  must  have  change.  Why" 

began  Dick  suddenly,  and  as  suddenly  lying  down  again. 

"  Is  this  all  you  have  come  to  say  ?  "  asked  James  North, 
after  a  moment's  patient  silence,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other. 

"  All ! "  screamed  Mrs.  North ;  "  is  it  not  enough  ?  " 

"  Not  to  change  my  mind  nor  my  residence  at  present," 
replied  North  coolly. 

" Do  you  mean  to  continue  this  folly  all  your  life?" 

"  And  have  a  coroner's  inquest,  and  advertisements  and 
all  the  facts  in  the  papers  ?  " 


254  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

"  And  have  her  read  the  melancholy  details,  and  know 
that  you  were  faithful  and  she  was  not  ?  " 

This  last  shot  was  from  the  gentle  Maria,  who  bit  her  lips 
as  it  glanced  from  the  immovable  man. 

"  I  believe  there  is  nothing  more  to  say,"  continued  North 
quietly.  "I  am  willing  to  believe  your  intentions  are  as 
worthy  as  your  zeal.  Let  us  say  no  more,"  he  added  with 
grave  weariness ;  "  the  tide  is  rising,  and  your  coachman  is 
signalling  you  from  the  bank." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  unshaken  positiveness  of  the 
man,  which  was  all  the  more  noticeable  from  its  gentle  but 
utter  indifference  to  the  wishes  of  the  party.  He  turned  his 
back  upon  them  as  they  gathered  hurriedly  around  the  elder 
gentleman,  while  the  words,  "He  cannot  be  in  his  right 
mind,"  "It's  your  duty  to  do  it,"  "  It's  sheer  insanity," 
"  Look  at  his  eye  !  "  all  fell  unconsciously  upon  his  ear. 

"  One  word  more,  Mr.  North,"  said  the  elder  gentleman 
a  little  portentously,  to  conceal  an  evident  embarrassment. 
"  It  may  be  that  your  conduct  might  suggest  to  minds  more 
practical  than  your  own  the  existence  of  some  aberration  of 
the  intellect — some  temporary  mania — that  might  force  your 
best  friends  into  a  quasi-legal  attitude  of  " 

"Declaring  me  insane,"  interrupted  James  North,  with 
the  slight  impatience  of  a  man  more  anxious  to  end  a  prolix 
interview  than  to  combat  an  argument.  "  I  think  differently. 
As  my  aunt's  lawyer,  you  know  that  within  the  last  year  I 
have  deeded  most  of  my  property  to  her  and  her  family.  I 
cannot  believe  that  so  shrewd  an  adviser  as  Mr.  Edmund 
Carter  would  ever  permit  proceedings  that  would  invalidate 
that  conveyance." 

Maria  burst  into  a  laugh  of  such  wicked  gratification  that 
James  North,  for  the  first  time,  raised  his  eyes  with  some- 
thing of  interest  to  her  face.  She  coloured  under  them, 
but  returned  his  glance  with  another  like  a  bayonet  flash. 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  255 

The  party  slowly  moved  toward  the  door,  James  North 
following. 

"Then  this  is  your  final  answer?"  asked  Mrs.  North, 
stopping  imperiously  on  the  threshold. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  queried  North,  half  abstractedly. 

"  Your  final  answer  ?  " 

"Oh,  certainly." 

Mrs.  North  flounced  away  a  dozen  rods  in  rage.  This 
was  unfortunate  for  North.  It  gave  them  the  final  attack 
in  detail.  Dick  began  :  "  Come  along  !  You  know  you 
can  advertise  for  her  with  a  personal  down  there,  and  the 
old  woman  wouldn't  object  as  long  as  you  were  careful  and 
put  in  an  appearance  no\v  and  then  ! " 

As  Dick  limped  away,  Mr.  Carter  thought,  in  confidence, 
that  the  whole  matter — even  to  suit  Mr.  North's  sensitive 
nature — might  be  settled  there.  "  She  evidently  expects  you 
to  return.  My  opinion  is  that  she  never  left  San  Francisco. 
You  can't  tell  anything  about  these  women." 

With  this  last  sentence  on  his  indifferent  ear,  James  North 
seemed  to  be  left  free.  Maria  had  rejoined  her  mother ; 
but  as  they  crossed  the  ford,  and  an  intervening  sand-hill 
hid  the  others  from  sight,  that  piquant  young  lady  suddenly 
appeared  on  the  hill  and  stood  before  him. 

"  And  you're  not  coming  back  ?  "  she  said  directly. 

"  No." 

"  Never  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  say." 

"  Tell  me  !  what  is  there  about  some  women  to  make  men 
love  them  so  ?  " 

"  Love,"  replied  North  quietly. 

"  No,  it  cannot  be — it  is  not  that !  " 

North  looked  over  the  hill  and  round  the  hill,  and  looked 
taored. 

"  Oh,  I'm  going  now.     But  one  moment,  Jim  !     I  didn't 


256  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

want  to  come.  They  dragged  me  here.  Good-bye."  She 
raised  a  burning  face  and  eyes  to  his.  He  leaned  forward 
and  imprinted  the  perfunctory,  cousinly  kiss  of  the  period 
upon  her  cheek. 

"  Not  that  way,"  she  said  angrily,  clutching  his  wrists  with 
her  long,  thin  fingers;  "you  shan't  kiss  me  in  that  way, 
James  North." 

With  the  faintest,  ghost-like  passing  of  a  twinkle  in  the 
corners  of  his  sad  eyes,  he  touched  his  lips  to  hers.  With 
the  contact,  she  caught  him  round  the  neck,  pressed  her 
burning  lips  and  face  to  his  forehead,  his  cheeks,  the  very 
curves  of  his  chin  and  throat,  and — with  a  laugh  was  gone. 


II. 

HAD  the  kinsfolk  of  James  North  any  hope  that  their  visit 
might  revive  some  lingering  desire  he  still  combated  to  entei 
once  more  the  world  they  represented,  that  hope  would  have 
soon  died.  Whatever  effect  this  episode  had  upon  the  soli- 
tary— and  he  had  become  so  self-indulgent  of  his  sorrow, 
and  so  careless  of  all  that  came  between  him  and  it,  as  to  meet 
opposition  with  profound  indifference — the  only  appreciable 
result  was  a  greater  attraction  for  the  solitude  that  protected 
him,  and  he  grew  even  to  love  the  bleak  shore  and  barren 
sands  that  had  proved  so  inhospitable  to  others.  There 
was  a  new  meaning  to  the  roar  of  the  surges,  an  honest, 
loyal  sturdiness  in  the  unchanging  persistency  of  the  uncouth 
and  blustering  trade-winds,  and  a  mute  fidelity  in  the  shining 
sands,  treacherous  to  all  but  him.  With  such  bandogs  to 
lie  in  wait  for  trespassers,  should  he  not  be  grateful  ? 

If  no  bitterness  was  awakened  by  the  repeated  avowal  of 
the  unfaithfulness  of  the  woman  he  loved,  it  was  because  he 
had  always  made  the  observation  and  experience  of  others 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  257 

give  way  to  the  dominance  of  his  own  insight  No  array  of 
contradictory  facts  ever  shook  his  belief  or  unbelief;  like 
all  egotists,  he  accepted  them  as  truths  controlled  by  a  larger 
truth  of  which  he  alone  was  cognisant.  His  simplicity, 
which  was  but  another  form  of  his  egotism,  was  so  complete 
as  to  baffle  ordinary  malicious  cunning,  and  so  he  was 
spared  the  experience  and  knowledge  that  come  to  a  lower 
nature,  and  help  to  debase  it. 

Exercise  and  the  stimulus  of  the  few  wants  that  sent  him 
hunting  or  fishing  kept  up  his  physical  health.  Never  a 
lover  of  rude  freedom  or  outdoor  life,  his  sedentary  predi- 
lections and  nice  tastes  kept  him  from  lapsing  into  barbarian 
excess  ;  never  a  sportsman,  he  followed  the  chase  with  no 
feverish  exultation.  Even  dumb  creatures  found  out  his 
secret,  and  at  times,  stalking  moodily  over  the  upland,  the 
brown  deer  and  elk  would  cross  his  path  without  fear  or 
molestation,  or,  idly  lounging  in  his  canoe  within  the  river 
bar,  flocks  of  wild  fowl  would  settle  within  stroke  of  his 
listless  oar.  And  so  the  second  winter  of  his  hermitage 
drew  near  its  close,  and  with  it  came  a  storm  that  passed 
into  local  history,  and  is  still  remembered.  It  uprooted 
giant  trees  along  the  river,  and  with  them  the  tiny  rootlets 
of  the  life  he  was  idly  fostering. 

The  morning  had  been  fitfully  turbulent,  the  wind  veer- 
ing several  points  south  and  west,  with  suspicious  lulls, 
unlike  the  steady  onset  of  the  regular  south-west  trades. 
High  overhead  the  long  manes  of  racing  drro  stratus 
streamed  with  flying  .gulls  and  hurrying  water-fowl ;  plover 
piped  incessantly,  and  a  flock  of  timorous  sandpipers  sought 
the  low  ridge  of  his  cabin,  while  a  wrecking  crew  of  curlew 
hastily  manned  the  uprooted  tree  that  tossed  wearily  beyond 
the  bar.  By  noon  the  flying  clouds  huddled  together  in 
masses,  and  then  were  suddenly  exploded  in  one  vast  opaque 
sheet  over  the  heavens.  The  sea  became  gray,  and  sud- 
VOL.  in.  R 


258  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

denly  wrinkled  and  old.  There  was  a  dumb,  half-articulate 
cry  in  the  air — rather  a  confusion  of  many  sounds,  as  of 
the  booming  of  distant  guns,  the  clangour  of  a  bell,  the 
trampling  of  many  waves,  the  creaking  of  timbers  and 
soughing  of  leaves,  that  sank  and  fell  ere  you  could  yet 
distinguish  them.  And  then  it  came  on  to  blow.  For  two 
hours  it  blew  strongly.  At  the  time  the  sun  should  have 
set  the  wind  had  increased ;  in  fifteen  minutes  darkness 
shut  down,  even  the  white  sands  lost  their  outlines,  and  sea 
and  shore  and  sky  lay  in  the  grip  of  a  relentless  and  aggres- 
sive power. 

Within  his  cabin,  by  the  leaping  light  of  his  gusty  fire,  North 
sat  alone.  His  first  curiosity  passed,  the  turmoil  without  no 
longer  carried  his  thought  beyond  its  one  converging  centre. 
She  had  come  to  him  on  the  wings  of  the  storm,  even  as  she 
had  been  borne  to  him  on  the  summer  fog-cloud.  Now 
and  then  the  wind  shook  the  cabin,  but  he  heeded  it  not. 
He  had  no  fears  for  its  safety ;  it  presented  its  low  gable  to 
the  full  fury  of  the  wind  that  year  by  year  had  piled,  and 
was  even  now  piling,  protecting  buttresses  of  sand  against 
it.  With  each  succeeding  gust  it  seemed  to  nestle  more 
closely  to  its  foundations,  in  the  whirl  of  flying  sand  that 
rattled  against  its  roof  and  windows.  It  was  nearly  mid- 
night when  a  sudden  thought  brought  him  to  his  feet. 
What  if  she  were  exposed  to  the  fury  of  such  a  night  as  this  ? 
What  could  he  do  to  help  her  ?  Perhaps  even  now,  as  he 

sat  there  idle,  she Hark  !  was  not  that  a  gun — No  ? 

Yes,  surely  ! 

He  hurriedly  unbolted  the  door,  but  the  strength  of  the 
wind  and  the  impact  of  drifted  sand  resisted  his  efforts. 
With  a  new  and  feverish  strength  possessing  him  he  forced 
it  open  wide  enough  to  permit  his  egress,  when  the  wind 
caught  him  as  a  feather,  rolled  him  over  and  over,  and  then, 
grappling  him  again,  held  him  down  hard  ar:d  fast  against 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  259 

the  drift.  Unharmed,  but  unable  to  move,  he  lay  there, 
hearing  the  multitudinous  roar  of  the  storm,  but  unable  to 
distinguish  one  familiar  sound  in  the  savage  medley.  At 
last  he  managed  to  crawl  flat  on  his  face  to  the  cabin,  and, 
refastening  the  door,  threw  himself  upon  his  bed. 

He  was  awakened  from  a  fitful  dream  of  his  cousin 
Maria.  She  with  a  supernatural  strength  seemed  to  be 
holding  the  door  against  some  unseen,  unknown  power  that 
moaned  and  strove  without,  and  threw  itself  in  despairing 
force  against  the  cabin.  He  could  see  the  lithe  undulations 
of  her  form  as  she  alternately  yielded  to  its  power,  and 
again  drew  the  door  against  it,  coiling  herself  around  the 
loghewn  doorpost  with  a  hideous,  snake-like  suggestion. 
And  then  a  struggle  and  a  heavy  blow,  which  shook  the 
very  foundations  of  the  structure,  awoke  him.  He  leaped 
to  his  feet,  and  into  an  inch  of  water  !  By  the  flickering 
firelight  he  could  see  it  oozing  and  dripping  from  the 
crevices  of  the  logs  and  broadening  into  a  pool  by  the 
chimney.  A  scrap  of  paper  torn  from  an  envelope  was 
floating  idly  on  its  current.  Was  it  the  overflow  of  the 
backed-up  waters  of  the  river?  He  was  not  left  long  in 
doubt.  Another  blow  upon  the  gable  of  the  house,  and  a 
torrent  of  spray  leaped  down  the  chimney,  scattered  the 
embers  far  and  wide,  and  left  him  in  utter  darkness.  Some 
of  the  spray  clung  to  his  lips.  It  was  salt.  The  great 
ocean  had  beaten  down  the  river  bar  and  was  upon  him  ! 

Was  there  aught  to  fly  to  ?  No  !  The  cabin  stood 
upon  the  highest  point  of  the  sandspit,  and  the  low  swale 
on  one  side  crossed  by  his  late  visitors  was  a  seething  mass 
of  breakers,  while  the  estuary  behind  him  was  now  the 
ocean  itself.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait 

The  very  helplessness  of  his  situation  was,  to  a  man  of 
his  peculiar  temperament,  an  element  of  patient  strength. 
The  instinct  of  self-preservation  was  still  strong  in  him,  but 


260  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

he  had  no  fear  of  death,  nor,  indeed,  any  presentiment  of  it ; 
yet  if  it  came,  it  was  an  easy  solution  of  the  problem  that 
had  been  troubling  him,  and  it  wiped  off  the  slate  !  He 
thought  of  the  sarcastic  prediction  of  his  cousin,  and  death 
in  the  form  that  threatened  him  was  the  obliteration  of  his 
home  and  even  the  ground  upon  which  it  stood.  There 
would  be  nothing  to  record,  no  stain  could  come  upon  the 
living.  The  instinct  that  kept  him  true  to  her  would  tell 
her  how  he  died ;  if  it  did  not,  it  was  equally  well.  And 
with  this  simple  fatalism  his  only  belief,  this  strange  man 
groped  his  way  to  his  bed,  lay  down,  and  in  a  few  moments 
was  'asleep.  The  storm  still  roared  without.  Once  again 
the  surges  leaped  against  the  cabin,  but  it  was  evident  that 
the  wind  was  abating  with  the  tide. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  high  noon,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly.  For  some  time  he  lay  in  a  delicious  languor, 
doubting  if  he  was  alive  or  dead,  but  feeling  through  every 
nerve  and  fibre  an  exquisite  sense  of  peace — a  rest  he  had 
not  known  since  his  boyhood — a  relief  he,  scarcely  knew 
from  what.  He  felt  that  he  was  smiling,  and  yet  his  pillow 
was  wet  with  the  tears  that  glittered  still  on  his  lashes.  The 
sand  blocking  up  his  doorway,  he  leaped  lightly  from  his 
window.  A  few  clouds  were  still  sailing  slowly  in  the 
heavens,  the  trailing  plumes  of  a  great  benediction  that  lay 
on  sea  and  shore.  He  scarcely  recognised  the  familiar 
landscape ;  a  new  bar  had  been  formed  in  the  river,  and  a 
narrow  causeway  of  sand  that  crossed  the  lagoon  and  marches 
to  the  river  bank  and  the  upland  trail  seemed  to  bring  him 
nearer  to  humanity  again.  He  was  conscious  of  a  fresh, 
childlike  delight  in  all  this,  and  when,  a  moment  later,  he 
saw  the  old  uprooted  tree,  now  apparently  for  ever  moored 
and  imbedded  in  the  sand  beside  his  cabin,  he  ran  to  it 
with  a  sense  of  joy. 

Its  trailing  roots  were  festooned  with  clinging  seaweed 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  261 

and  the  long,  snaky,  undulating  stems  of  the  sea-turnip ; 
and  fixed  between  two  crossing  roots  was  a  bamboo  orange 
crate,  almost  intact.  As  he  walked  toward  it  he  heard  a 
strange  cry,  unlike  anything  the  barren  sands  had  borne 
before.  Thinking  it  might  be  some  strange  sea-bird  caught 
in  the  meshes  of  the  seaweed,  he  ran  to  the  crate  and  looked 
within.  It  was  half  filled  with  sea-moss  and  feathery  algse. 
The  cry  was  repeated.  He  brushed  aside  the  weeds  with 
his  hands.  It  was  not  a  wounded  sea-bird,  but  a  living 
human  child ! 

As  he  lifted  it  from  its  damp  enwrappings  he  saw  that  it 
was  an  infant  eight  or  nine  months  old.  How  and  when  it 
had  been  brought  there,  or  what  force  had  guided  that  elfish 
cradle  to  his  very  door,  he  could  not  determine;  but  it 
must  have  been  left  early,  for  it  was  quite  warm,  and  its 
clothing  almost  dried  by  the  blazing  morning  sun.  To 
wrap  his  coat  about  it,  to  run  to  his  cabin  with  it,  to  start 
out  again  with  the  appalling  conviction  that  nothing  could 
be  done  for  it  there,  occupied  some  moments.  His  nearest 
neighbour  was  Trinidad  Joe,  a  "  logger,"  three  miles  up  the 
river.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  vaguely  that  he  was 
a  man  of  family.  To  half  strangle  the  child  with  a  few 
drops  from  his  whisky  flask,  to  extricate  his  canoe  from  the 
marsh,  and  strike  out  into  the  river  with  his  waif,  was  at 
least  to  do  something.  In  half  an  hour  he  had  reached  the 
straggling  cabin  and  sheds  of  Trinidad  Joe,  and  from  the 
few  scanty  flowers  that  mingled  with  the  brushwood  fence, 
and  a  surplus  of  linen  fluttering  on  the  line,  he  knew  that 
his  surmise  as  to  Trinidad  Joe's  domestic  establishment  was 
correct. 

The  door  at  which  he  knocked  opened  upon  a  neat, 
plainly-furnished  room,  and  the  figure  of  a  buxom  woman 
of  twenty-five.  With  an  awkwardness  new  to  him,  North 
stammered  out  the  circumstances  of  his  finding  the  infant, 


262  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

and  the  object  of  his  visit.  Before  he  had  finished,  the 
woman,  by  some  feminine  trick,  had  takea  the  child  from 
his  hands  ere  he  knew  it ;  and  when  he  paused,  out  of 
breath,  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter.  North  tried  to  laugh 
too,  but  failed. 

When  the  woman  had  wiped  the  tears  from  a  pair  of 
very  frank  blue  eyes,  and  hidden  two  rows  of  very  strong 
white  teeth  again,  she  said — 

"  Look  yar  !  You're  that  looney  sort  o'  chap  that  lives 
alone  over  on  the  spit  yonder,  ain't  ye  ?  " 

North  hastened  to  admit  all  that  the  statement  might 
imply. 

"And  so  ye've  had  a  baby  left  ye  to  keep  you  company? 
Lordy  ! "  Here  she  looked  as  if  dangerously  near  a  relapse, 
and  then  added,  as  if  in  explanation  of  her  conduct — 

"When  I  saw  ye  paddlin'  down  here — you  thet  ez  shy 
as  elk  in  summer — I  sez,  '  He's  sick.'  But  a  baby — O 
Lordy!" 

For  a  moment  North  almost  hated  her.  A  woman  who, 
in  this  pathetic,  perhaps  almost  tragic,  picture  saw  only  a 
ludicrous  image,  and  that  image  himself,  was  of  another 
race  than  he  had  ever  mingled  with.  Profoundly  indifferent 
as  he  had  always  been  to  the  criticism  of  his  equals  in 
station,  the  mischievous  laughter  of  this  illiterate  woman 
jarred  upon  him  worse  than  his  cousin's  sarcasm.  It  was 
with  a  little  dignity  that  he  pointed  out  the  fact  that  at 
present  the  child  needed  nourishment.  "  It's  very  young," 
he  added.  "  I'm  afraid  it  wants  its  natural  nourishment." 

"  Whar  is  it  to  get  it  ?  "  asked  the  woman. 

James  North  hesitated,  and  looked  around.  There 
should  be  a  baby  somewhere  !  there  must  be  a  baby  some- 
where !  "  I  thought  that  you,"  he  stammered,  conscious  of 

an  awkward  colouring, — "  I — that  is — I  " He  stopped 

short,  for  she  was  already  cramming  her  apron  into  her 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  263 

mouth,  too  late,  however,  to  stop  the  laugh  that  overflowed 
it  When  she  found  her  breath  again,  she  said — 

"  Look  yar  !  I  don't  wonder  they  said  you  was  looney ! 
I'm  Trinidad  Joe's  onmarried  darter,  and  the  only  woman 
in  this  house.  Any  fool  could  have  told  you  that.  Now, 
ef  you  can  rig  us  up  a  baby  out  o'  them  facts,  I'd  like  to 
see  it  done." 

Inwardly  furious  but  outwardly  polite,  James  North 
begged  her  pardon,  deplored  his  ignorance,  and,  with  a 
courtly  bow,  made  a  movement  to  take  the  child.  But 
the  woman  as  quickly  drew  it  away. 

"  Not  much,"  she  said  hastily.  "  What  !  trust  that  poor 
critter  to  you  ?  No,  sir !  Thar's  more  ways  of  feeding  a 
baby,  young  man,  than  you  knows  on,  with  all  your  '  nat'ral 
nourishment.'  But  it  looks  kinder  logy  and  stupid." 

North  freezingly  admitted  that  he  had  given  the  infant 
whisky  as  a  stimulant. 

"  You  did  ?  Come,  now,  that  ain't  so  looney  after  all. 
Well,  I'll  take  the  baby,  and  when  dad  comes  home  we'll 
see  what  can  be  done." 

North  hesitated.  His  dislike  of  the  woman  was  intense, 
and  yet  he  knew  no  one  else,  and  the  baby  needed  instant 
care.  Besides,  he  began  to  see  the  ludicrousness  of  his 
making  a  first  call  on  his  neighbours  with  a  foundling  to 
dispose  of.  She  saw  his  hesitation,  and  said — 

"  Ye  don't  know  me,  in  course.  Well,  I'm  Bessy  Robin- 
son, Trinidad  Joe  Robinson's  daughter.  I  reckon  dad 
will  give  me  a  character  if  you  want  references,  or  any  of 
the  boys  on  the  river." 

"  I'm  only  thinking  of  the  trouble  I'm  giving  you,  Miss 
Robinson,  I  assure  you.  Any  expense  you  may  incur  " 

"  Young  man,"  said  Bessy  Robinson,  turning  sharply  on 
her  heel,  and  facing  him  with  her  black  brows  a  little 
contracted,  "  if  it  comes  to  expenses,  I  reckon  I'll  pay  you 


264  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

for  that  baby,  or  not  take  it  at  all.  But  I  don't  know  you 
well  enough  to  quarrel  with  you  on  sight.  So  leave  the 
child  to  me,  and  if  you  choose,  paddle  down  here  to- 
morrow, after  sun  up — the  ride  will  do  you  good — and  see 
it,  and  dad  thrown  in.  Good-bye  ! "  and  with  one  power- 
ful but  well-shaped  arm  thrown  around  the  child,  and  the 
other  crooked  at  the  dimpled  elbow  a  little  aggressively, 
she  swept  by  James  North  and  entered  a  bedroom,  closing 
the  door  behind  her. 

When  Mr.  James  North  reached  his  cabin  it  was  dark. 
As  he  rebuilt  his  fire,  and  tried  to  rearrange  the  scattered 
and  disordered  furniture,  and  remove  the  debris  of  last 
night's  storm,  he  was  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  feeling 
lonely.  He  did  not  miss  the  child.  Beyond  the  instincts 
of  humanity  and  duty  he  had  really  no  interest  in  its 
welfare  or  future.  He  was  rather  glad  to  get  rid  of  it,  he 
would  have  preferred  to  some  one  else,  and  yet  she  looked 
as  if  she  were  competent.  And  then  came  the  reflection 
that  since  the  morning  he  had  not  once  thought  of  the 
woman  he  loved.  The  like  had  never  occurred  in  his 
twelvemonth's  solitude.  So  he  set  to  work,  thinking  of 
her  and  of  his  sorrows,  until  the  word  "looney,"  in  con- 
nection with  his  suffering,  flashed  across  his  memory. 
"  Looney  ! "  It  was  not  a  nice  word.  It  suggested  some- 
thing less  than  insanity ;  something  that  might  happen  to 
a  common,  unintellectual  sort  of  person.  He  remembered 
the  loon,  an  ungainly  feathered  neighbour,  that  was  popu- 
larly supposed  to  have  lent  its  name  to  the  adjective. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  people  looked  upon  him  as  one 
too  hopelessly  and  uninterestingly  afflicted  for  sympathy  or 
companionship,  too  unimportant  and  common  for  even 
ridicule ;  or  was  this  but  the  coarse  interpretation  of  that 
vulgar  girl  ? 

Nevertheless,  the  next  morning  "  after  sun  up  "  James 


The  Man  on  the  Beacli.  265 

North  was  at  Trinidad  Joe's  cabin.  That  worthy  proprietor 
himself — a  long,  lank  man,  with  even  more  than  the  ordi- 
nary rural  Western  characteristics  of  ill-health,  ill-feed- 
ing, and  melancholy — met  him  on  the  bank,  clothed  in  a 
manner  and  costume  that  was  a  singular  combination  of  the 
frontiersman  and  the  sailor.  When  North  had  again  related 
the  story  of  his  finding  the  child,  Trinidad  Joe  pondered. 

"  It  mout  hev  been  stowed  away  in  one  of  them  crates 
for  safe-keeping,"  he  said,  musingly,  "and  washed  off  the 
deck  o'  one  o'  them  Tahiti  brigs  goin'  down  fer  oranges. 
Leastways,  it  never  got  thar  from  these  parts." 

"  But  it's  a  miracle  its  life  was  saved  at  all.  It  must 
have  been  some  hours  in  the  water." 

"  Them  brigs  lays  their  course  well  inshore,  and  it  was 
just  mebbee  a  toss  up  if  the  vessel  clawed  off  the  reef  at 
all  !  And  ez  to  the  child  keepin'  up,  why,  dog  my  skin ! 
that's  just  the  contrariness  o'  things,"  continued  Joe,  in 
sententious  cynicism.  "  Ef  an  able  seaman  had  fallen  from 
the  yard-arm  that  night  he'd  been  sunk  in  sight  o'  the  ship, 
and  thet  baby  ez  can't  swim  a  stroke  sails  ashore,  sound 
asleep,  with  the  waves  for  a  baby-jumper." 

North,  who  was  half  relieved,  yet  half-awkwardly  dis- 
appointed at  not  seeing  Bessy,  ventured  to  ask  how  the 
child  was  doing. 

"  She'll  do  all  right  now,"  said  a  frank  voice  above,  and, 
looking  up,  North  discerned  the  round  arms,  blue  eyes,  and 
white  teeth  of  the  daughter  at  the  window.  "She's  all 
hunky,  and  has  an  appetite — ef  she  hezn't  got  her  'nat'ral 
nourishment.'  Come,  dad !  heave  ahead,  and  tell  the 
stranger  what  you  and  me  allow  we'll  do,  and  don't  stand 
there  swappin'  lies  with  him." 

"Weel,"  said  Trinidad  Joe  dejectedly,  "Bess  allows  she 
can  rar  that  baby  and  do  justice  to  it.  And  I  don't  say — 
though  I'm  her  father — that  she  can't.  But  when  Bess 


266  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

wants  anything  she  wants  it  all,  clean  down ;  no  half- ways 
nor  leavin's  for  her." 

"That's  me!  go  on,  dad — you're  chippin'  in  the  same 
notch  every  time,"  said  Miss  Robinson  with  cheerful  direct- 
ness. 

"  Well,  we  agree  to  put  the  job  up  this  way.  We'll  take 
the  child  and  you'll  give  us  a  paper  or  writin'  makin'  over  all 
your  right  and  title.  How's  that  ?  " 

Without  knowing  exactly  why  he  did,  Mr.  North  objected 
decidedly. 

"  Do  you  think  we  won't  take  good  care  of  it  ? "  asked 
Miss  Bessy  sharply. 

"That  is  not  the  question,"  said  North  a  little  hotly. 
"  In  the  first  place,  the  child  is  not  mine  to  give.  It  has 
fallen  into  my  hands  as  a  trust — the  first  hands  that  re- 
ceived it  from  its  parents.  I  do  not  think  it  right  to  allow 
any  other  hands  to  come  between  theirs  and  mine." 

Miss  Bessy  left  the  window.  In  another  moment  she 
appeared  from  the  house,  and,  walking  directly  toward 
North,  held  out  a  somewhat  substantial  hand.  "  Good  ! " 
she  said,  as  she  gave  his  fingers  an  honest  squeeze.  "  You 
ain't  so  looney  after  all.  Dad,  he's  right !  He  shan't  gin 
it  up,  but  we'll  go  halves  in  it,  he  and  me.  He'll  be  father 
and  I'll  be  mother  'till  death  do  us  part,  or  the  reg'lar 
family  turns  up.  Well — what  do  you  say  ?  " 

More  pleased  than  he  dared  confess  to  himself  with  the 
praise  of  this  common  girl,  Mr.  James  North  assented. 
Then  would  he  see  the  baby?  He  would,  and  Trinidad 
Joe,  having  already  seen  the  baby,  and  talked  of  the  baby, 
and  felt  the  baby,  and  indeed  had  the  baby  offered  to  him 
in  every  way  during  the  past  night,  concluded  to  give  some 
of  his  valuable  time  to  logging,  and  left  them  together. 

Mr.  North  was  obliged  to  admit  that  the  baby  was  thriv- 
ing. He,  moreover,  listened  with  polite  interest  to  the  state- 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  267 

ment  that  the  baby's  eyes  were  hazel,  like  his  own ;  that  it 
had  five  teeth  ;  that  she  was,  for  a  girl  of  that  probable 
age,  a  robust  child ;  and  yet  Mr.  North  lingered.  Finally, 
with  his  hand  on  the  door-lock,  he  turned  to  Bessy  and 
said — 

"  May  I  ask  you  an  odd  question,  Miss  Robinson  ?  " 

"Goon." 

"Why  did  you  think  I  was— '  looney ' ? " 

The  frank  Miss  Robinson  bent  her  head  over  the  baby. 

"Why?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

"  Because  you  were  looney." 

"Oh!" 

"But" 

t     «Yes" 

"  You'll  get  over  it." 

And  under  the  shallow  pretext  of  getting  the  baby's 
food,  she  retired  to  the  kitchen,  where  Mr.  North  had  the 
supreme  satisfaction  of  seeing  her,  as  he  passed  the  window, 
sitting  on  a  chair  with  her  apron  over  her  head,  shaking 
with  laughter. 

For  the  next  two  or  three  days  he  did  not  visit  the 
Robinsons,  but  gave  himself  up  to  past  memories.  On  the 
third  day  he  had — it  must  be  confessed  not  without  some 
effort — brought  himself  into  that  condition  of  patient  sor- 
row which  had  been  his  habit.  The  episode  of  the  storm 
and  the  finding  of  the  baby  began  to  fade,  as  had  faded 
the  visit  of  his  relatives.  It  had  been  a  dull,  wet  day,  and 
he  was  sitting  by  his  fire,  when  there  came  a  tap  at  his 
door.  "  Flora,"  by  which  juvenescent  name  his  aged 
Indian  handmaid  was  known,  usually  announced  her  pre- 
sence with  an  imitation  of  a  curlew's  cry :  it  could  not  be 
her.  He  fancied  he  heard  the  trailing  of  a  woman's  dress 
against  the  boards,  and  started  to  his  feet,  deathly  pale, 


268  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

with  a  name  upon  his  lips.  But  the  door  was  impatiently 
thrown  open,  and  showed  Bessy  Robinson !  And  the 
baby! 

With  a  feeling  of  relief  he  could  not  understand,  he 
offered  her  a  seat.  She  turned  her  frank  eyes  on  him 
curiously. 

"You  look  skeert!" 

"  I  was  startled.     You  know  I  see  nobody  here  !  * 

"  Thet's  so.     But  look  yar,  do  you  ever  use  a  doctor?" 

Not  clearly  understanding  her,  he  in  turn  asked,  "Why?" 

"  Cause  you  must  rise  up  and  get  one  now — thet's  why. 
This  yer  baby  of  ours  is  sick.  We  don't  use  a  doctor  at 
our  house,  we  don't  beleeve  in  'em,  hain't  no  call  for  'em — 
but  this  yer  baby's  parents  mebbee  did.  So  rise  up  out  o' 
that  cheer,  and  get  one."  % 

James  North  looked  at  Miss  Robinson  and  rose,  albeit  a 
little  in  doubt,  and  hesitating. 

Miss  Robinson  saw  it.  "  I  shouldn't  hev  troubled  ye, 
nor  ridden  three  mile  to  do  it,  if  ther  hed  been  any  one  else 
to  send.  But  dad's  over  at  Eureka,  buying  logs,  and  I'm 
alone.  Hello — wher'  yer  goin '  ?  " 

North  had  seized  his  hat  and  opened  the  door.  "  For  a 
doctor,"  he  replied  amazedly. 

"  Did  ye  kalkilate  to  walk  six  miles  and  back  ?  " 

"Certainly — I  have  no  horse." 

"But  /have,  and  you'll  find  her  tethered  outside.  She 
ain't  much  to  look  at,  but  when  you  strike  the  trail  she'll 

g°-" 

"  But  you — how  will  you  return  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Robinson,  drawing  her  chair  to  the 
fire,  taking  off  her  hat  and  shawl,  and  warming  her  knees 
by  the  blaze,  "  I  didn't  reckon  to  return.  You'll  find  me 
here  when  you  come  back  with  the  doctor.  Go !  Ske- 
daddle quick." 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  269 

She  did  not  have  to  repeat  the  command.  In  another 
instant  James  North  was  in  Miss  Bessy's  seat — a  man's 
dragoon  saddle — and  pounding  away  through  the  sand. 
Two  facts  were  in  his  mind  :  one  was  that  he,  the  "  looney," 
was  about  to  open  communication  with  the  wisdom  and 
contemporary  criticism  of  the  settlement,  by  going  for  a 
doctor  to  administer  to  a  sick  and  anonymous  infant  in  his 
possession ;  the  other  was  that  his  solitary  house  was  in 
the  hands  of  a  self-invited,  large -limbed,  illiterate,  but 
rather  comely  young  woman.  These  facts  he  could  not 
gallop  away  from,  but  to  his  credit  be  it  recorded  that  he 
fulfilled  his  mission  zealously,  if  not  coherently,  to  the 
doctor,  who  during  the  rapid  ride  gathered  the  idea  that 
North  had  rescued  a  young  married  woman  from  drowning, 
who  had  since  given  birth  to  a  child. 

The  few  words  that  set  the  doctor  right  when  he 
arrived  at  the  cabin  might  in  any  other  community  have 
required  further  explanation,  but  Dr.  Duchesne,  an  old 
army  surgeon,  was  prepared  for  everything  and  indifferent 
to  all.  "  The  infant,"  he  said,  "  was  threatened  with  inflam- 
mation of  the  lungs ;  at  present  there  was  no  danger,  but 
the  greatest  care  and  caution  must  be  exercised.  Par- 
ticularly exposure  should  be  avoided."  "  That  settles  the 
whole  matter  then,"  said  Bessy  potentially.  Both  gentle- 
men looked  their  surprise.  "  It  means,"  she  condescended 
to  further  explain,  "  that  you  must  ride  that  filly  home,  wait 
for  the  old  man  to  come  to-morrow,  and  then  ride  back  here 
with  some  of  my  duds,  for  thar's  no  '  day-days '  nor  pic- 
nicing  for  that  baby  ontil  she's  better.  And  I  reckon  to 
stay  with  her  ontil  she  is." 

"  She  certainly  is  unable  to  bear  any  exposure  at  present," 
said  the  doctor,  with  an  amused  side  glance  at  North's 
perplexed  face.  "Miss  Robinson  is  right"  I'll  ride  with 
you  over  the  sands  as  far  as  the  trail." 


270  The  Man  on  the  Beach, 

"  Fm  afraid,"  said  North,  feeling  it  incumbent  upon  him 
to  say  something,  "  that  you'll  hardly  find  it  as  comfortable 
here  as" 

"  I  reckon  not,"  she  said  simply,  "  but  I  didn't  expect 
much." 

North  turned  a  little  wearily  away.  "  Good  night,"  she 
said  suddenly,  extending  her  hand,  with  a  gentler  smile  of 
lip  and  eye  than  he  had  ever  before  noticed,  "  good  night — 
take  good  care  of  dad." 

The  doctor  and  North  rode  together  some  moments  in 
silence.  North  had  another  fact  presented  to  him,  i.e.,  that 
he  was  going  a-visiting,  and  that  he  had  virtually  abandoned 
his  former  life ;  also  that  it  would  be  profanation  to  think 
of  his  sacred  woe  in  the  house  of  a  stranger. 

"  I  daresay,"  said  the  doctor  suddenly,  "  you  are  not 
familiar  with  the  type  of  woman  Miss  Bessy  presents  so 
perfectly.  Your  life  has  been  spent  among  the  conventional 
class." 

North  froze  instantly  at  what  seemed  to  be  a  probing 
of  his  secret.  Disregarding  the  last  suggestion,  he  made 
answer  simply  and  truthfully  that  he  had  never  met  any 
Western  girl  like  Bessy. 

"  That's  your  bad  luck/'  said  the  doctor.  "  You  think 
her  coarse  and  illiterate  ?  " 

Mr.  North  had  been  so  much  struck  with  her  kindness 
ithat  really  he  had  not  thought  of  it 

"  That's  not  so,"  said  the  doctor  curtly ;  "  although  even 
if  you  told  her  so  she  would  not  think  any  the  less  of  you 
— nor  of  herself.  If  she  spoke  rustic  Greek  instead  of 
bad  English,  and  wore  a  cestus  in  place  of  an  ill-fitting 
corset,  you'd  swear  she  was  a  goddess.  There's  your  trail 
Good  night" 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  271 


III. 

JAMES  NORTH  did  not  sleep  well  that  night.  He  had  taken 
Miss  Bessy's  bedroom,  at  her  suggestion,  there  being  but 
two,  and  "  dad  never  using  sheets  and  not  bein'  keerful  in 
his  habits."  It  was  neat,  but  that  was  all.  The  scant 
ornamentation  was  atrocious ;  two  or  three  highly-coloured 
prints,  a  shell  work-box,  a  ghastly  winter  bouquet  of  skeleton 
leaves  and  mosses,  a  starfish,  and  two  china  vases  hideous 
enough  to  have  been  worshipped  as  Buddhist  idols,  exhibited 
the  gentle  recreation  of  the  fair  occupant,  and  the  possible 
future  education  of  the  child.  In  the  morning  he  was  met 
by  Joe,  who  received  the  message  of  his  daughter  with  his 
usual  dejection,  and  suggested  that  North  stay  with  him 
until  the  child  was  better.  That  event  was  still  remote; 
North  found,  on  his  return  to  his  cabin,  that  the  child 
had  been  worse;  but  he  did  not  know,  until  Miss  Bessy 
dropped  a  casual  remark,  that  she  had  not  closed  her  own 
eyes  that  night.  It  was  a  week  before  he  regained  his 
own  quarters,  but  an  active  week — indeed,  on  the  whole,  a 
rather  pleasant  week.  For  there  was  a  delicate  flattery  in 
being  domineered  by  a  wholesome  and  handsome  woman, 
and  Mr.  James  North  had  by  this  time  made  up  his  mind 
that  she  was  both.  Once  or  twice  he  found  himself  con- 
templating her  splendid  figure  with  a  recollection  of  the 
doctor's  compliment,  and  later,  emulating  her  own  frank- 
ness, told  her  of  it 

"  And  what  did  you  say  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  laughed  and  said — nothing." 

And  so  did  she. 

A  month  after  this  interchange  of  frankness,  she  asked 
him  if  he  could  spend  the  next  evening  at  her  house.  "  You 
see,"  she  said,  "  there's  to  be  a  dance  down  at  the  hall  at 


272  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

Eureka,  and  I  haven't  kicked  a  fat  since  last  spring.  Hank 
Fisher's  comin'  up  to  take  me  over,  and  I'm  goin*  to  let 
the  shanty  slide  for  the  night" 

"  But  what's  to  become  of  the  baby  ? "  asked  North,  a 
little  testily. 

"  Well,"  said  Miss  Robinson,  facing  him  somewhat  aggres- 
sively, "I  reckon  it  won't  hurt  ye  to  take  care  of  it  for  a  night. 
Dad  can't — and  if  he  could,  he  don't  know  how.  Liked 
to  have  pizened  me  after  mar  died.  No,  young  man,  I 
don't  propose  to  ask  Hank  Fisher  to  tote  thet  child  over 
to  Eureka  and  back,  and  spile  his  fun." 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  make  way  for  Mr.  Hank — Hank 
— Fisher  ? "  said  North,  with  the  least  tinge  of  sarcasm  in 
his  speech. 

"  Of  course.     You've  got  nothing  else  to  do,  you  know." 

North  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  pleaded  a  pre- 
vious engagement  on  business  of  importance,  but  he  knew 
that  Bessy  spoke  truly.  He  had  nothing  to  do.  "And 
Fisher  has,  I  suppose?"  he  asked. 

"  Of  course — to  look  after  me  !  " 

A  more  unpleasant  evening  James  North  had  not  spent 
since  the  first  day  of  his  solitude.  He  almost  began  to  hate 
the  unconscious  cause  of  his  absurd  position,  as  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  floor  with  it.  "Was  there  ever  such 
egregious  folly  ?  "  he  began,  but  remembering  he  was  quot- 
ing Maria  North's  favourite  resume  of  his  own  conduct, 
he  stopped.  The  child  cried,  missing,  no  doubt,  the  full 
rounded  curves  and  plump  arm  of  its  nurse.  North 
danced  it  violently,  with  an  inward  accompaniment  that 
was  not  musical,  and  thought  of  the  other  dancers.  "  Doubt- 
less," he  mused,  "  she  has  told  this  beau  of  hers  that  she  has 
left  the  baby  with  the  *  looney '  Man  on  the  Beach.  Per- 
haps I  may  be  offered  a  permanent  engagement  as  a  harm- 
less simpleton  accustomed  to  the  care  of  children.  Mothers 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  273 

may  cry  for  me.  The  doctor  is  at  Eureka.  Of  course,  he 
will  be  there  to  see  his  untranslated  goddess,  and  condole 
with  her  over  the  imbecility  of  the  Man  on  the  Beach." 
Once  he  carelessly  asked  Joe  who  the  company  were. 

"Well,"  said  Joe  mournfully,  "thar's  Widder  Higsby 
and  darter ;  the  four  Stubbs  gals ;  in  course  Polly  Doble 
will  be  on  hand  with  that  feller  that's  clerking  over  at  the 
Head  for  Jones,  and  Jones's  wife.  Then  thar's  French 
Pete,  and  Whisky  Ben,  and  that  chap  that  shot  Archer — I 
disremember  his  name — and  the  barber — what's  that  little 
mulatto's  name — that  'ar  Kanaka  ?  I  swow  !  "  continued 
Joe  drearily,  "  I'll  be  forgettin'  my  own  next — and  " 

*  That  will  do,"  interrupted  North,  only  half  concealing 
his  disgust  as  he  rose  and  carried  the  baby  to  the  other 
room,  beyond  the  reach  of  names  that  might  shock  its  lady- 
like ears.  The  next  morning  he  met  the  from-dance-return- 
ing  Bessy  abstractedly,  and  soon  took  his  leave,  full  of  a 
disloyal  plan,  conceived  in  the  sleeplessness  of  her  own 
bedchamber.  He  was  satisfied  that  he  owed  a  duty  to  its 
unknown  parents  to  remove  the  child  from  the  degrading 
influences  of  the  barber  Kanaka,  and  Hank  Fisher  especially, 
and  he  resolved  to  write  to  his  relatives,  stating  the  case, 
asking  a  home  for  the  waif  and  assistance  to  find  its  parents. 
He  addressed  this  letter  to  his  cousin  Maria,  partly  in  con- 
sideration of  the  dramatic  farewell  of  that  young  lady,  and 
its  possible  influence  in  turning  her  susceptible  heart  towards 
his  protege.  He  then  quietly  settled  back  to  his  old  solitary 
habits,  and  for  a  week  left  the  Robinsons  unvisited.  The 
result  was  a  morning  call  by  Trinidad  Joe  on  the  hermit. 
"  It's  a  whim  of  my  gal's,  Mr.  North,"  he  said  dejectedly, 
"  and  ez  I  told  you  before  and  warned  ye,  when  that  gal  hez 
an  idee,  fower  yoke  of  oxen  and  seving  men  can't  drag  it 
outer  her.  She's  got  a  idee  o'  larnin' — never  hevin'  hed 
much  schooling  and  we  ony  takin'  the  papers,  permiskiss 

VOL.  III.  S 


274  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

like — and  she  says  702*  can  teach  her — not  hevin'  anythin* 
else  to  do.  Do  ye  folly  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  North,  "certainly." 

"Well,  she  allows  ez  mebbee  you're  proud,  and  didn't 
like  her  takin'  care  of  the  baby  for  nowt ;  and  she  reckons 
that  ef  you'll  gin  her  some  book  larnin',  and  get  her  to  sling 
some  fancy  talk  in  fash'n'ble  style — why,  she'll  call  it 
squar." 

"  You  can  tell  her,"  said  North,  very  honestly,  "  that  I 
shall  be  only  too  glad  to  help  her  in  any  way,  without  ever 
hoping  to  cancel  my  debt  of  obligation  to  her." 

"  Then  it's  a  go  ?  "  said  the  mystified  Joe,  with  a  desperate 
attempt  to  convey  the  foregoing  statement  to  his  own  in- 
tellect in  three  Saxon  words. 

"  It's  a  go,"  replied  North  cheerfully. 

And  he  felt  relieved.  For  he  was  not  quite  satisfied  with 
his  own  want  of  frankness  to  her.  But  here  was  a  way  to 
pay  off  the  debt  he  owed  her,  and  yet  retain  his  own  dignity. 
And  now  he  could  tell  her  what  he  had  done,  and  he  trusted 
to  the  ambitious  instinct  that  prompted  her  to  seek  a  better 
education  to  explain  his  reasons  for  it. 

He  saw  her  that  evening  and  confessed  all  to  her  frankly. 
She  kept  her  head  averted,  but  when  she  turned  her  blue 
eyes  to  him  they  were  wet  with  honest  tears.  North  had  a 
man's  horror  of  a  ready  feminine  lachrymal  gland ;  but  it 
was  not  like  Bessy  to  cry,  and  it  meant  something ;  and  then 
she  did  it  in  a  large,  goddess-like  way,  without  sniffling,  or 
choking,  or  getting  her  nose  red,  but  rather  with  a  gentle 
deliquescence,  a  harmonious  melting,  so  that  he  was  fain  to 
comfort  her  with  nearer  contact,  gentleness  in  his  own  sad 
eyes,  and  a  pressure  of  her  large  hand. 

"It's  all  right.  I  s'pose,"  she  said  sadly;  "but  I  didn't 
reckon  on  yer  havin'  any  relations,  but  thought  you  was 
alone,  like  me." 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  275 

James  North,  thinking  of  Hank  Fisher  and  the  "  mullater," 
could  not  help  intimating  that  his  relations  were  very  wealthy 
and  fashionable  people,  and  had  visited  him  last  summer. 
A  recollection  of  the  manner  in  which  they  had  so  visited 
him,  and  his  own  reception  of  them,  prevented  his  saying 
more.  But  Miss  Bessy  could  not  forego  a  certain  feminine 
curiosity,  and  asked — 

"  Did  they  come  with  Sam  Baker's  team  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Last  July?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  Sam  drove  the  horses  here  for  a  bite  ?  " 

"I  believe  so." 

"  And  them's  your  relations  ?  " 

"They  are." 

Miss  Robinson  reached  over  the  cradle  and  enfolded  the 
sleeping  infant  in  her  powerful  arms.  Then  she  lifted  her 
eyes,  wrathful  through  her  still  glittering  tears,  and  said, 
slowly,  "They  don't— have — this— child— then  !" 

"But  why?" 

"  Oh,  why  ?  /  saw  them  !  That's  why,  and  enough  ! 
You  can't  play  any  such  gay  and  festive  skeletons  on  this 
poor  baby  for  flesh  and  blood  parents.  No,  sir  ! " 

"  I  think  you  judge  them  hastily,  Miss  Bessy,"  said  North, 
secretly  amused;  "my  aunt  may  not,  at  first,  favourably 
impress  strangers,  yet  she  has  many  friends.  But  surely 
you  do  not  object  to  my  cousin  Maria,  the  young  lady?" 

"What!  that  dried  cuttle-fish,  with  nothing  livin'  about 
her  but  her  eyes  ?  James  North,  ye  may  be  a  fool  like  the 
old  woman — perhaps  it's  in  the  family — but  ye  ain't  a 
devil  like  that  gal !  That  ends  it" 

And  it  did.  North  despatched  a  second  letter  to  Maria 
saying  that  he  had  already  made  other  arrangements  for  the 
baby.  Pleased  with  her  easy  victory,  Miss  Bessy  became 


276  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

more  than  usually  gracious,  and  the  next  day  bowed  her 
shapely  neck  meekly  to  the  yoke  of  her  teacher,  and  became 
a  docile  pupil.  James  North  could  not  have  helped  notic- 
ing her  ready  intelligence,  even  had  he  been  less  prejudiced 
in  her  favour  than  he  was  fast  becoming  now.  If  he  had 
found  it  pleasant  before  to  be  admonished  by  her,  there  was 
still  more  delicious  flattery  in  her  perfect  trust  in  his  omni- 
scient skill  as  a  pilot  over  this  unknown  sea.  There  was  a 
certain  enjoyment  in  guiding  her  hand  over  the  writing- 
book,  that  I  fear  he  could  not  have  obtained  from  an  intel- 
lect less  graciously  sustained  by  its  physical  nature.  The 
weeks  flew  quickly  by  on  gossamer  wings,  and  when  she 
placed  a  bunch  of  larkspurs  and  poppies  in  his  hand  one 
morning,  he  remembered  for  the  first  time  that  it  was 
spring. 

1  cannot  say  that  there  was  more  to  record  of  Miss 
Bessy's  education  than  this.  Once  North,  half  jestingly, 
remarked  that  he  had  never  yet  seen  her  admirer,  Mr.  Hank 
Fisher.  Miss  Bessy  (colouring  but  cool) — "You  never 
will!"  North  (white  but  hot)— "Why?"  Miss  Bessy 
(faintly)—"  I'd  rather  not."  (North  resolutely)—"  I  insist." 
Bessy  (yielding) — "  As  my  teacher  ?  "  North  (hesitatingly, 
at  the  limitation  of  the  epithet) — "  Y-e-e-s  ! "  Bessy — 
"  And  you'll  promise  never  to  speak  of  it  again  ?  "  North — 
"Never."  Bessy  (slowly)— "  Well,  he  said  I  did  an  awful 
thing  to  go  over  to  your  cabin  and  stay."  North  (in  the 
genuine  simplicity  of  a  refined  nature) — "  But  how  ?  " 
Miss  Bessy  (half  piqued,  but  absolutely  admiring  that 
nature) — "  Quit !  and  keep  your  promise  ! " 

They  were  so  happy  in  these  new  relations  that  it  occurred 
to  Miss  Bessy  one  day  to  take  James  North  to  task  for 
obliging  her  to  ask  to  be  his  pupil.  "  You  knew  how  igno- 
rant I  was,"  she  added  ;  and  Mr.  North  retorted  by  relating 
to  her  the  doctor's  criticism  on  her  independence.  "  To  tell 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  277 

you  the  truth,"  he  added,  "  I  was  afraid  you  would  not  take 
it  as  kindly  as  he  thought." 

"  That  is,  you  thought  me  as  vain  as  yourself.  It  seems 
to  me  you  and  the  doctor  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  each 
other." 

"On  the  contrary,"  laughed  North,  "that  was  all  we 
said." 

"  And  you  didn't  make  fun  of  me  ?  " 

Perhaps  it  was  not  necessary  for  North  to  take  her  hand 
to  emphasise  his  denial,  but  he  did. 

Miss  Bessy,  being  still  reminiscent,  perhaps  did  not  notice 
it.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  ar — I  mean  that  thar — no, 
that  baby — I  wouldn't  have  known  you  ! "  she  said  dreamily. 

"No,"  returned  North  mischievously,  "but  you  still 
would  have  known  Hank  Fisher." 

No  woman  is  perfect.  Miss  Bessy  looked  at  him  with  a 
sudden — her  first  and  last — flash  of  coquetry.  Then 
stooped  and  kissed — the  baby. 

James  North  was  a  simple  gentleman,  but  not  altogether 
a  fool.  He  returned  the  kiss,  but  not  vicariously. 

There  was  a  footstep  on  the  porch.  These  two  turned 
the  hues  of  a  dying  dolphin,  and  then  laughed.  It  was 
Joe.  He  held  a  newspaper  in  his  hand.  "  I  reckon  ye  woz 
right,  Mr.  North,  about  my  takin'  these  yar  papers  reg'lar. 
For  I  allow  here's  suthin'  that  may  clar  up  the  mystery  o' 
that  baby's  parents."  With  the  hesitation  of  a  slowly 
grappling  intellect,  Joe  sat  down  on  the  table  and  read 
from  the  San  Francisco  "  Herald  "  as  follows  : — " '  It  is  now 
ascertained  beyond  doubt  that  the  wreck  reported  by  the 
"^Eolus"  was  the  American  brig  "  Pompare,"  bound  hence 
to  Tahiti.  The  worst  surmises  are  found  correct.  The 
body  of  the  woman  has  been  since  identified  as  that  of  the 
beauti-ful  daughter  of — of — of — Terp — Terp — Terpish' — 
Well !  I  swow  that  name  just  tackles  me." 


278  The  Man  on  the  Beach. 

"Gin  it  to  me,  dad,"  said  Bessy  pertly.  "You  never 
had  any  education,  any  way.  Hear  your  accomplished 
daughter."  With  a  mock  bow  to  the  new  schoolmaster, 
and  a  capital  burlesque  of  a  confident  schoolgirl,  she  strode 
to  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  paper  held  and  folded  book- 
wise  in  her  hands.  "Ahem!  Where  did  you  leave  off? 
Oh,  'the  beautiful  daughter  of  Terpsichore — whose  name 
was  prom-i-nently  connected  with  a  mysterious  social 
scandal  of  last  year — the  gifted  but  unfortunate  Grace 
Chatterton ' — No — don't  stop  me — there's  some  more  ! 
'  The  body  of  her  child,  a  lovely  infant  of  six  months, 
has  not  been  recovered,  and  it  is  supposed  was  washed 
overboard.'  There  !  maybe  that's  the  child,  Mr.  North. 
Why,  dad  !  Look,  O  my  God  !  He's  falling.  Catch  him, 
dad!  Quick !" 

But  her  strong  arm  had  anticipated  her  father's.  She 
caught  him,  lifted  him  to  the  bed,  on  which  he  lay  hence- 
forth for  many  days  unconscious.  Then  fever  supervened, 
and  delirium,  and  Dr.  Duchesne  telegraphed  for  his  friends ; 
but  at  the  end  of  a  week  and  the  opening  of  a  summer  day 
the  storm  passed,  as  the  other  storm  had  passed,  and  he 
awoke,  enfeebled,  but  at  peace.  Bessy  was  at  his  side — 
he  was  glad  to  see — alone.  "  Bessy,  dear,"  he  said  hesi- 
tatingly, "  when  I  am  stronger  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"  I  know  it  all,  Jem,"  she  said  with  a  trembling  lip  ;  "  I 
heard  it  all — no,  not  from  them,  but  from  your  own  lips 
in  your  delirium.  I'm  glad  it  came  from  you — even 
then." 

"  Do  you  forgive  me,  Bessy  ?  " 

She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  forehead  and  said  hastily,  and 
then  falteringly,  as  if  afraid  of  her  impulse — 

"Yes.     Yes." 

"  And  you  will  still  be  mother  to  the  child  ?  * 


The  Man  on  the  Beach.  279 


"  No,  dear,  not  hers,  but  mine  !  " 

She  started,  cried  a  little,  and  then  putting  her  arms 
around  him,  said,  "Yes." 

And  as  there  was  but  one  way  of  fulfilling  that  sacred 
promise,  they  were  married  in  the  autumn. 


(       280       ) 


Boger  Catron'0  jTrienlx 

I  THINK  that,  from  the  beginning,  we  all  knew  how  it  would 
end.  He  had  always  been  so  quiet  and  conventional,  al- 
though by  nature  an  impulsive  man  ;  always  so  temperate 
and  abstemious,  although  a  man  with  a  quick  appreciation 
of  pleasure ;  always  so  cautious  and  practical,  although  an 
imaginative  man,  that  when,  at  last,  one  by  one  he  loosed 
these  bands,  and  gave  himself  up  to  a  life,  perhaps  not 
worse  than  other  lives,  which  the  world  has  accepted  as  the 
natural  expression  of  their  various  owners,  we  at  once  decided 
that  the  case  was  a  hopeless  one.  And  when  one  night  we 
picked  him  up  out  of  the  Union  Ditch,  a  begrimed  and 
weather-worn  drunkard,  a  hopeless  debtor,  a  self-confessed 
spendthrift,  and  a  half-conscious,  maudlin  imbecile,  we  knew 
that  the  end  had  come.  The  wife  he  had  abandoned  had 
in  turn  deserted  him ;  the  woman  he  had  misled  had  al- 
ready realised  her  folly,  and  left  him  with  her  reproaches ; 
the  associates  of  his  reckless  life,  who  had  used  and  abused 
him,  had  found  him  no  longer  of  service,  or  even  amuse- 
ment, and  clearly  there  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  hand 
him  over  to  the  State,  and  we  took  him  to  the  nearest 
penitential  asylum.  Conscious  of  the  Samaritan  deed,  we 
went  back  to  our  respective  wives,  and  told  his  story.  It  is 
only  just  to  say  that  these  sympathetic  creatures  were  more 
interested  in  the  philanthropy  of  their  respective  husbands 
than  in  its  miserable  object.  "  It  was  good  and  kind  in 


Roger  Catroris  Friend.  281 

you,  dear,"  said  loving  Mrs.  Maston  to  her  spouse,  as  re- 
turning home  that  night  he  flung  his  coat  on  a  chair  with 
an  air  of  fatigued  righteousness ;  "it  was  like  your  kind 
heart  to  care  for  that  beast ;  but  after  he  left  that  good  wife 
of  his — that  perfect  saint — to  take  up  with  that  awful  woman, 
I  think  I'd  have  left  him  to  die  in  the  ditch.  Only  to  think 
of  it,  dear,  a  woman  that  you  wouldn't  speak  to  ! "  Here 
Mr.  Maston  coughed  slightly,  coloured  a  little,  mumbled 
something  about  "  women  not  understanding  some  things," 
"  that  men  were  men,"  &c.,  and  then  went  comfortably  to 
sleep,  leaving  the  outcast  happily  oblivious  of  all  things, 
and  especially  this  criticism,  locked  up  in  Hangtown  JaiL 

For  the  next  twelve  hours  he  lay  there,  apathetic  and 
half-conscious.  Recovering  from  this  after  awhile,  he 
became  furious,  vengeful,  and  unmanageable,  filling  the  cell 
and  corridor  with  maledictions  of  friend  and  enemy ;  and 
again  sullen,  morose,  and  watchful.  Then  he  refused  food, 
and  did  not  sleep,  pacing  his  limits  with  the  incessant 
feverish  tread  of  a  caged  tiger.  Two  physicians,  diagnosing 
his  case  from  the  scant  facts,  pronounced  him  insane,  and 
he  was  accordingly  transported  to  Sacramento.  But  on  the 
way  thither  he  managed  to  elude  the  vigilance  of  his  guards, 
and  escaped.  The  alarm  was  given,  a  hue  and  cry  followed 
him,  the  best  detectives  of  San  Francisco  were  on  his  track, 
and  finally  recovered  his  dead  body — emaciated  and  wasted 
by  exhaustion  and  fever — in  the  Stanislaus  Marshes,  identi- 
fied it,  and,  receiving  the  reward  of  $1000  offered  by  his 
surviving  relatives  and  family,  assisted  in  legally  establishing 
the  end  we  had  predicted. 

Unfortunately  for  the  moral,  the  facts  were  somewhat 
inconsistent  with  the  theory.  A  day  or  two  after  the  remains 
were  discovered  and  identified,  the  real  body  of  "Roger 
Catron,  aged  52  years,  slight,  iron-gray  hair,  and  shabby  in 
apparel,"  as  the  advertisement  read,  dragged  itself,  travel- 


282  Roger  Catroris  Friend. 

worn,  trembling,  and  dishevelled,  up  the  steep  slope  of 
Deadwood  Hill.  How  he  should  do  it  he  had  long  since 
determined, — ever  since  he  had  hidden  his  Derringer,  a 
mere  baby  pistol,  from  the  vigilance  of  his  keepers.  Where 
he  should  do  it,  he  had  settled  within  his  mind  only  within 
the  last  few  moments.  Deadwood  Hill  was  seldom  fre- 
quented ;  his  body  might  lie  there  for  months  before  it  was 
discovered.  He  had  once  thought  of  the  river,  but  he 
remembered  it  had  an  ugly  way  of  exposing  its  secrets  on 
sandbar  and  shallow,  and  that  the  body  of  Whisky  Jim, 
bloated  and  disfigured  almost  beyond  recognition,  had  been 
once  delivered  to  the  eyes  of  Sandy  Bar,  before  breakfast, 
on  the  left  bank  of  the  Stanislaus.  He  toiled  up  through 
the  chimisal  that  clothed  the  southern  slope  of  the  hill  until 
he  reached  the  bald,  storm-scarred  cap  of  the  mountain, 
ironically  decked  with  the  picked,  featherless  plumes  of  a 
few  dying  pines.  One  stripped  of  all  but  two  lateral  branches, 
brought  a  boyish  recollection  to  his  fevered  brain.  Against 
a  background  of  dull  sunset  fire,  it  extended  to  gaunt 
arms — black,  rigid,  and  pathetic.  Calvary  ! 

With  the  very  word  upon  his  lips,  he  threw  himself,  face 
downwards,  on  the  ground  beneath  it,  and  with  his  fingers 
clutched  in  the  soil,  lay  there  for  some  moments,  silent  and 
still.  In  this  attitude,  albeit  a  sceptic  and  unorthodox  man, 
he  prayed.  I  cannot  say — indeed  I  dare  not  say — that  his 
prayer  was  heard,  or  that  God  visited  him  thus.  Let  us 
rather  hope  that  all  there  was  of  God  in  him,  in  this  crucial 
moment  of  agony  and  shame,  strove  outward  and  upward. 
Howbeit,  when  the  moon  rose  he  rose  too,  perhaps  a  trifle 
less  steady  than  the  planet,  and  began  to 'descend  the  hill 
with  feverish  haste,  yet  with  this  marked  difference  between 
his  present  haste  and  his  former  recklessness,  that  it  seemed 
to  have  a  well-defined  purpose.  When  he  reached  the  road 
again,  he  struck  into  a  well-worn  trail,  where,  in  the  distance^ 


Roger  Catroris  Friend.  283 

a  light  faintly  twinkled.  Following  this  beacon,  he  kept  on, 
and  at  last  flung  himself  heavily  against  the  door  of  the 
little  cabin  from  whose  window  the  light  had  shone.  As  he 
did  so,  it  opened  upon  the  figure  of  a  square,  thickset  man, 
who,  in  the  impetuosity  of  Catron's  onset,  received  him, 
literally,  in  his  arms. 

"  Captain  Dick,"  said  Roger  Catron  hoarsely,  "  Captain 
Dick,  save  me  !  For  God's  sake,  save  me  ! " 

Captain  Dick,  without  a  word,  placed  a  large,  protect- 
ing hand  upon  Catron's  shoulder,  allowed  it  to  slip  to  his 
waist,  and  then  drew  his  visitor  quietly,  but  firmly,  within 
the  cabin.  Yet,  in  the  very  movement,  he  had  managed 
to  gently  and  unobtrusively  possess  himself  of  Catron's 
pistol. 

"Save  ye!  From  which?"  asked  Captain  Dick,  as 
quietly  and  unobtrusively  dropping  the  Derringer  in  a 
flour  sack. 

"  From  everything,"  gasped  Catron,  "  from  the  men  that 
are  hounding  me,  from  my  family,  from  my  friends,  but 
most  of  all — from,  from — myself!" 

He  had,  in  turn,  grasped  Captain  Dick,  and  forced  him 
frenziedly  against  the  wall.  The  Captain  released  himself, 
and,  taking  the  hands  of  his  excited  visitor,  said  slowly — 

"Ye  want  some  blue  mass — suthin'  to  onload  your 
liver.  I'll  get  it  up  for  ye." 

"But,  Captain  Dick,  I'm  an  outcast,  shamed,  dis- 
graced"  

"Two  on  them  pills  taken  now,  and  two  in  the  morning," 
continued  the  Captain  gravely,  rolling  a  bolus  in  his 
fingers,  "  will  bring  yer  head  to  the  wind  again.  Yer 
fallin'  to  leeward  all  the  time,  and  ye  want  to  brace  up." 

"But,  Captain,"  continued  the  agonised  man,  again 
clutching  the  sinewy  arms  of  his  host,  and  forcing  his  livid 
face  and  fixed  eyes  within  a  few  inches  of  Captain  Dick's, 


284  Roger  Catron"  s  Friend. 

"  hear  me !  You  must  and  shall  hear  me.  I've  been  in 
jail — do  you  hear  ? — in  jail,  like  a  common  felon.  I've  been 
sent  to  the  asylum,  like  a  demented  pauper.  I've  " 

"Two  now,  and  two  in  the  morning,"  continued  the 
captain  quietly,  releasing  one  hand  only  to  place  two  enor- 
mous pills  in  the  mouth  of  the  excited  Catron.  "  Thar  now 
— a  drink  o'  whisky — thar,  that'll  do — just  enough  to  take 
the  taste  out  of  yer  mouth,  "-wash  it  down,  and  belay  it,  so 
to  speak.  And  how  are  the  mills  running,  gin'rally,  over  at 
the  Bar  ?  " 

"  Captain  Dick,  hear  me — if  you  are  my  friend,  for  God's 
sake  hear  me  !  An  hour  ago  I  should  have  been  a  dead 
man  " 

"  They  say  that  Sam  Bolin  hez  sold  out  of  the  '  Exel- 
sior ' " 

"  Captain  Dick !  Listen,  for  God's  sake ;  I  have 
suffered  " 

But  Captain  Dick  was  engaged  in  critically  examining 
his  man.  "  I  guess  I'll  ladle  ye  out  some  o'  that  soothin' 
mixture  I  bought  down  at  Simpson's  t'other  day,"  he  said 
reflectively.  "  And  I  onderstand  the  boys  up  on  the  Bar 
thinks  the  rains  will  set  in  airly." 

But  here  Nature  was  omnipotent.  Worn  by  exhaus- 
tion, excitement,  and  fever,  and  possibly  a  little  affected 
by  Captain  Dick's  later  potion,  Roger  Catron  turned  white, 
and  lapsed  against  the  wall.  In  an  instant  Captain  Dick 
had  caught  him,  as  a  child,  lifted  him  in  his  stalwart  arms, 
wrapped  a  blanket  around  him,  and  deposited  him  in  his 
bunk.  Yet,  even  in  his  prostration,  Catron  made  one  more 
despairing  appeal  for  mental  sympathy  from  his  host. 

"I  know  I'm  sick — dying,  perhaps,"  he  gasped,  from 
under  the  blankets  ;  "  but  promise  me,  whatever  comes, 
tell  my  wife — say  to  " 

**It  has  been  lookin'  consid'ble  like  rain,  lately,  here- 


Roger  Catroris  Friend.  285 

abouts,"  continued  the  Captain  coolly,  in  a  kind  of  amphi- 
bious slang,  characteristic  of  the  man,  "  but  in  these  yer 
latitudes  no  man  kin  set  up  to  be  a  weather  sharp." 

"  Captain  !  will  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"  Yer  goin'  to  sleep,  now,"  said  the  Captain  potentially. 

"  But,  Captain,  they  are  pursuing  me  !  If  they  should 
track  me  here  ?  " 

"  Thar  is  a  rifle  over  thar,  and  yer's  my  navy  revolver. 
When  I've  emptied  them,  and  want  you  to  bear  a  hand 
I'll  call  ye.  Just  now  your  lay  is  to  turn  in.  It's  my 
watch." 

There  was  something  so  positive,  strong,  assuring,  and 
a  little  awesome  in  the  Captain's  manner,  that  the  trembling, 
nervously-prostrated  man  beneath  the  blankets  forbore  to 
question  further.  In  a  few  minutes  his  breathing,  albeit 
hurried  and  irregular,  announced  that  he  slept.  The  Cap- 
tain then  arose,  for  a  moment  critically  examined  the 
sleeping  man,  holding  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  whistling 
softly,  and  stepping  backwards  to  get  a  good  perspective, 
but  always  with  contemplative  good  humour,  as  if  Catron 
were  a  work  of  art,  which  he  (the  Captain)  had  created,  yet 
one  that  he  was  not  yet  entirely  satisfied  with.  Then  he 
put"  a  large  pea-jacket  over  his  flannel  blouse,  dragged  a 
Mexican  serap'e  from  the  corner,  and  putting  it  over  his 
shoulders,  opened  the  cabin  door,  sat  down  on  the  door- 
step, and  leaning  back  against  the  door-post,  composed 
himself  to  meditation.  The  moon  lifted  herself  slowly 
over  the  crest  of  Deadwood  Hill,  and  looked  down,  not 
unkindly,  on  his  broad,  white,  shaven  face,  round  and 
smooth  as  her  own  disc,  encircled  with  a  thin  fringe  of 
white  hair  and  whiskers.  Indeed,  he  looked  so  like  the 
prevailing  caricatures  in  a  comic  almanac  of  planets,  with 
dimly  outlined  features,  that  the  moon  would  have  been 
quite  justified  in  flirting  with  him,  as  she  clearly  did, 


286  Roger  Catroris  Friend. 

insinuating  a  twinkle  into  his  keen,  gray  eyes,  making  the 
shadow  of  a  dimple  on  his  broad,  fat  chin,  and  otherwise 
idealising  him  after  the  fashion  of  her  hero-worshipping 
sex.  Touched  by  these  benign  influences,  Captain  Dick 
presently  broke  forth  in  melody.  His  song  was  various, 
but  chiefly,  I  think,  confined  to  the  recital  of  the  exploits 
of  one  "  Lorenzo,"  who,  as  related  by  himself — 

"  Shipped  on  board  of  a  Liner, 

'Renzo,  boys,  'Renzo," — 

a  fact  that  seemed  to  have  deprived  him  at  once  of  all 
metre,  grammar,  or  even  the  power  of  coherent  narrative. 
At  times  a  groan  or  a  half-articulate  cry  would  come  from 
the  "  bunk  "  whereon  Roger  Catron  lay,  a  circumstance  that 
always  seemed  to  excite  Captain  Dick  to  greater  effort  and 
more  rapid  vocalisation.  Toward  morning,  in  the  midst 
of  a  prolonged  howl  from  the  Captain,  who  was  finishing 
the  "  Starboard  Watch,  ahoy  !  "  in  three  different  keys,  Roger 
Catron's  voice  broke  suddenly  and  sharply  from  his  enwrap, 
pings— 

"  Dry  up  you  d — d  old  fool,  will  you  ?  " 

Captain  Dick  stopped  instantly.  Rising  to  his  feet,  and 
looking  over  the  landscape,  he  took  all  Nature  into  his  con- 
fidence in  one  inconceivably  arch  and  crafty  wink.  "  He's 
coming  up  to  the  wind,"  he  said  softly,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"The  pills  is  fetchin'  him.  Steady  now,  boys,  steady. 
Steady  as  she  goes  on  her  course,"  and  with  another  wink  of 
ineffable  wisdom,  he  entered  the  cabin  and  locked  the  door. 

Meanwhile,  the  best  society  of  Sandy  Bar  was  kind  to 
the  newly-made  widow.  Without  being  definitely  expressed, 
it  was  generally  felt  that  sympathy  with  her  was  now  safe, 
and  carried  no  moral  responsibility  with  it.  Even  practical 
and  pecuniary  aid,  which  before  had  been  withheld,  lest  it 


Roger  Catron's  Friend.  287 

should  be  diverted  from  its  proper  intent,  and,  perhaps 
through  the  weakness  of  the  wife,  made  to  minister  to  the 
wickedness  of  the  husband — even  that  was  now  openly 
suggested.  Everybody  felt  that  somebody  should  do  some- 
thing for  the  widow.  A  few  did  it.  Her  own  sex  rallied 
to  her  side,  generally  with  large  sympathy,  but,  unfor- 
tunately, small  pecuniary  or  practical  result.  At  last,  when 
the  feasibility  of  her  taking  a  boarding-house  in  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  identifying  herself  with  that  large  class  of  American 
gentlewomen  who  have  seen  better  days,  but  clearly  are  on 
the  road  never  to  see  them  again,  was  suggested,  a  few  of  her 
own  and  her  husband's  rich  relatives  came  to  the  front  to 
rehabilitate  her.  It  was  easier  to  take  her  into  their  homes 
as  an  equal,  than  to  refuse  to  call  upon  her  as  the  mistress 
of  a  lodging-house  in  the  adjoining  street.  And  upon 
inspection  it  was  found  that  she  was  still  quite  an  eligible 
partie,  prepossessing,  and  withal,  in  her  widow's  weeds,  a  kind 
of  poetical  and  sentimental  presence,  as  necessary  in  a 
wealthy  and  fashionable  American  family  as  a  work  of  art. 
"Yes,  poor  Caroline  has  had  a  sad,  sad  history,"  the 
languid  Mrs.  Walker  Catron  would  say,  "  and  we  all  sym- 
pathise with  her  deeply;  Walker  always  regards  her  as  a 
sister."  What  was  this  dark  history  never  came  out,  but  its 
very  mystery  always  thrilled  the  visitor,  and  seemed  to 
indicate  plainly  the  respectability  of  the  hostess.  An 
American  family  without  a  genteel  skeleton  in  its  closet 
could  scarcely  add  to  that  gossip  which  keeps  society  from 
forgetting  its  members.  Nor  was  it  altogether  unnatural 
that  presently  Mrs.  Roger  Catron  lent  herself  to  this  senti- 
mental deception,  and  began  to  think  that  she  really  was  a 
more  exquisitely  aggrieved  woman  than  she  imagined.  At 
times,  when  this  vague  load  of  iniquity  put  upon  her  dead 
husband  assumed,  through  the  mystery  of  her  friends,  the 
rumour  of  murder  and  highway  robbery,  and  even  an 


288  Roger  Catroris  Friend. 

attempt  upon  her  own  life,  she  went  to  her  room,  a  little 
frightened,  and  had  "  a  good  cry,"  reappearing  more  mourn- 
ful and  pathetic  than  ever,  and  corroborating  the  suspicions 
of  her  friends.  Indeed,  one  or  two  impulsive  gentlemen, 
fired  by  her  pathetic  eyelids,  openly  regretted  that  the 
deceased  had  not  been  hanged,  to  which  Mrs.  Walker  Catron 
responded  that,  "  Thank  Heaven,  they  were  spared  at  least 
that  disgrace ! "  and  so  sent  conviction  into  the  minds  of 
her  hearers. 

It  was  scarcely  two  months  after  this  painful  close  of 
her  matrimonial  life  that  one  rainy  February  morning  the 
servant  brought  a  card  to  Mrs.  Roger  Catron,  bearing  the 
following  inscription  : — 

"  Richard  Graeme  Macleod." 

Women  are  more  readily  affected  by  names  than  we  are, 
and  there  was  a  certain  Highland  respectability  about  this 
that,  albeit,  not  knowing  its  possessor,  impelled  Mrs.  Catron 
to  send  word  that  she  "  would  be  down  in  a  few  moments." 
At  the  end  of  this  femininely  indefinite  period — a  quarter 
of  an  hour  by  the  French  clock  on  the  mantelpiece — Mrs. 
Roger  Catron  made  her  appearance  in  the  reception-room. 
It  was  a  dull,  wet  day,  as  I  have  said  before,  but  on  the 
Contra  Costa  hills  the  greens  and  a  few  flowers  were  already 
showing  a  promise  of  rejuvenescence  and  an  early  spring. 
There  was  something  of  this,  I  think,  in  Mrs.  Catron's 
presence,  shown  perhaps  in  the  coquettish  bow  of  a  ribbon^ 
in  a  larger  and  more  delicate  ruche,  in  a  tighter  belting  of 
her  black  cashmere  gown ;  but  still  there  was  a  suggestion 
of  recent  rain  in  the  eyes,  and  threatening  weather.  As 
she  entered  the  room,  the  sun  came  out,  too,  and  revealed 
the  prettiness  and  delicacy  of  her  figure,  and  I  regret  to 
state,  also,  the  somewhat  obtrusive  plainness  of  her  visitor. 

"  I  knew  ye'd  be  sorter  disapp'inted  at  first,  not  gettin1 


Roger  Catroris  Friend.  289 

the  regular  bearings  o'  my  name,  but  I'm  '  Captain  Dick.' 
Mebbee  ye've  heard  your  husband — that  is,  your  husband 
ez  waz,  Roger  Catron — speak  o'  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Catron,  feeling  herself  outraged  and  deceived  in 
belt,  ruche,  and  ribbon,  freezingly  admitted  that  she  had 
heard  of  him  before. 

"  In  course,"  said  the  Captain ;  "  why,  Lord  love  ye,  Mrs. 
Catron — ez  waz — he  used  to  be  all  the  time  talkin'  of 
ye.  And  allers  in  a  free,  easy,  confidential  way.  Why,  one 
night — don't  ye  remember  ? — when  he  came  home,  carryin', 
mebbee,  more  canvas  than  was  seamanlike,  and  you  shet 
him  out  the  house,  and  laid  for  him  with  a  broomstick,  or 
one  o'  them  crokay  mallets,  I  disremember  which,  and  he 
kem  over  to  me,  ole  Captain  Dick,  and  I  sez  to  him,  sez  I, 
'  Why,  Roger,  them's  only  love  pats,  and  yer  condishun  is 
such  ez  to  make  any  woman  mad  like.'  Why,  Lord  bless 
ye  !  there  ain't  enny  of  them  mootool  differences  you  and 
him  hed  ez  I  doesn't  knows  on,  and  didn't  always  stand 
by,  and  lend  ye  a  hand,  and  heave  in  a  word  or  two  of 
advice  when  called  on." 

Mrs.  Catron,  ice  everywhere  but  in  her  pink  cheeks,  was 
glad  that  Mr.  Catron  seemed  to  have  always  a  friend  to 
whom  he  confided  everything^  even  the  base  falsehoods 
he  had  invented. 

"Mebbee  now  they  waz  falsehoods,"  said  the  Captain 
thoughtfully.  "  But  don't  ye  go  to  think,"  he  added  con- 
scientiously, "  that  he  kept  on  that  tack  all  the  time.  Why, 
that  day  he  made  a  raise,  gambling,  I  think,  over  at  Dutch 
Flat,  and  give  ye  them  bracelets — regular  solid  gold — 
why,  it  would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have  heard 
him  talk  about  you — said  you  had  the  prettiest  arm  in 
Californy.  Well,"  said  the  Captain,  looking  around  for  a 
suitable  climax,  "well,  you'd  have  thought  that  he  was 
sorter  proud  of  ye !  Why,  I  woz  with  him  in  'Frisco  when 

VOL.  III.  T 


290  Roger  Catrorfs  Friend. 

he  bought  that  A-i  prize  bonnet  for  ye  for  $75,  and  not 
hevin'  over  $50  in  his  pocket,  borryed  the  other  $25  outer 
me.  Mebbee  it  was  a  little  fancy  for  a  bonnet;  but  I 
allers  thought  he  took  it  a  little  too  much  to  heart  when 
you  swopped  it  off  for  that  Dollar  Varden  dress,  just 
because  that  Lawyer  Maxwell  said  the  Dollar  Vardens  was 
becomin'  to  ye.  Ye  know,  I  reckon,  he  was  always  sorter 
jealous  of  that  thar  shark  " 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  what  your  business  is  with  me  ?  " 
interrupted  Mrs.  Catron  sharply. 

"In  course,"  said  the  Captain,  rising.  "Ye  see,"  he 
said  apologetically,  "we  got  to  talking  o'  Roger  and  ole 
times,  and  I  got  a  little  out  o'  my  course.  It's  a  matter 
of" —  he  began  to  fumble  in  his  pockets,  and  finally  pro- 
duced a  small  memorandum-book,  which  he  glanced  over 
— "it's  a  matter  of  $250." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Mrs.  Catron,  in  indig- 
nant astonishment. 

"On  the  i5th  of  July,"  said  the  Captain,  consulting  his 
memorandum-book,  "Roger  sold  his  claim  at  Nye's  Ford 
for  $1500.  Now,  le's  see.  Thar  was  nigh  on  $350  ez  he 
admitted  to  me  he  lost  at  poker,  and  we'll  add  $50  to  that 
for  treating,  supper,  and  drinks  gin'rally — put  Roger  down 
for  $400.  Then  there  was  you.  Now  you  spent  $250  on 
your  trip  to  'Frisco  thet  summer ;  then  $200  went  for  them 
presents  you  sent  your  Aunt  Jane,  and  thar  was  $400  for 
house  expenses.  Well,  thet  foots  up  $1250.  Now,  what's 
become  of  thet  other  $250  ?" 

Mrs.  Catron's  woman's  impulse  to  retaliate  sharply  over- 
came her  first  natural  indignation  at  her  visitor's  impudence. 
Therein  she  lost,  womanlike,  her  ground  of  vantage. 

"  Perhaps  the  woman  he  fled  with  can  tell  you,"  she  said 
savagely. 

"  Thet,"  said  the  Captain  slowly,  "  is  a  good,  a  reason- 


Roger  Catron's  Friend.  291 

able  idee.  But  it  ain't  true ;  from  all  I  can  gather  she  lent 
him  money.  It  didn't  go  thar" 

"Roger  Catron  left  me  penniless,"  said  Mrs.  Catron 
hotly. 

"Thet's  jist  what  gets  me.  You  oughter  have  $250 
somewhar  lying  round." 

Mrs.  Catron  saw  her  error.  "  May  I  ask  what  right  you 
have  to  question  me  ?  If  you  have  any,  I  must  refer  you 
to  my  lawyer  or  my  brother-in-law;  if  you  have  none,  I 
hope  you  will  not  oblige  me  to  call  the  servants  to  put  you 
from  the  house." 

"Thet  sounds  reasonable  and  square,  too,"  said  the 
Captain  thoughtfully;  "I've  a  power  of  attorney  from 
Roger  Catron  to  settle  up  his  affairs  and  pay  his  debts, 
given  a  week  afore  them  detectives  handed  ye  over  his 
dead  body.  But  I  thought  that  you  and  me  might  save 
lawyer's  fees  and  all  fuss  and  feathers,  ef,  in  a  sociable,  sad- 
like  way — lookin'  back  sorter  on  Roger  ez  you  and  me 
once  knew  him — we  had  a  quiet  talk  together." 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Catron,  rising  stiffly. 
The  Captain  hesitated  a  moment,  a  slight  flush  of  colour 
came  in  his  face  as  he  at  last  rose  as  the  lady  backed  out 
of  the  room.  "  Good  morning,  ma'am,"  said  the  Captain, 
and  departed. 

Very  little  was  known  of  this  interview  except  the  general 
impression  in  the  family  that  Mrs.  Catron  had  successfully 
resisted  a  vague  attempt  at  blackmail  from  one  of  her 
husband's  former  dissolute  companions.  Yet  it  is  only  fair 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Catron  snapped  up,  quite  savagely,  two 
male  sympathisers  on  this  subject,  and  cried  a  good  deal 
for  two  days  afterward,  and  once,  in  the  hearing  of  her 
sister-in-law,  to  that  lady's  great  horror,  "wished  she  was 
dead." 

A  week  after  this  interview,  as  Lawyer  Phillips  sat  in  his 


292  Roger  Catroris  Friend. 

office,  he  was  visited  by  Macleod.  Recognising,  possibly, 
some  practical  difference  between  the  widow  and  the 
lawyer,  Captain  Dick  this  time  first  produced  his  creden- 
tials— a  "power  of  attorney."  "I  need  not  tell  you,"  said 
Phillips,  "that  the  death  of  your  principal  renders  this 
instrument  invalid,  and  I  suppose  you  know  that,  leaving 
no  will  and  no  property,  his  estate  has  not  been  admini- 
stered upon." 

"  Mebbee  it  is,  and  mebbee  it  isn't.  But  I  hain't  askin' 
for  anythin'  but  information.  There  was  a  bit  o'  prop'ty 
and  a  mill  onto  it,  over  at  Heavytree,  ez  sold  for  $10,000. 
I  don't  see,"  said  the  Captain,  consulting  his  memorandum- 
book,  "  ez  he  got  anything  out  of  it." 

"It  was  mortgaged  for  $7000,"  said  the  lawyer  quickly, 
"and  the  interest  and  fees  amount  to  about  $3000  more." 

"  The  mortgage  was  given  as  security  for  a  note  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  gambling  debt,"  said  the  lawyer  sharply. 

"Thet's  so,  and  my  belief  ez  that  it  wasn't  a  square 
game.  He  shouldn't  hev  given  no  note.  Why,  don't  ye 
mind,  'way  back  in  '60,  when  you  and  me  waz  in  Marys- 
ville,  that  night  that  you  bucked  agin  faro,  and  lost  seving 
hundred  dollars,  and  then  refoosed  to  take  up  your  checks, 
saying  it  was  a  fraud  and  gambling  debt  ?  And  don't  ye 
mind  when  that  chap  kicked  ye,  and  I  helped  to  drag  him 
off  ye — and  " 

"  I'm  busy  now,  Mr.  Macleod,"  said  Phillips  hastily ; 
"my  clerk  will  give  you  all  the  information  you  require. 
Good  morning." 

"  It's  mighty  queer,"  said  the  Captain  thoughtfully,  as 
he  descended  the  stairs,  "  but  the  moment  the  conversation 
gets  limber  and  sociable-like,  and  I  gets  to  runnin'  free 
under  easy  sail,  it's  always  '  Good  morning,  Captain,'  and 
we're  becalmed." 

By  some  occult  influence,  however,  all  the  foregoing  con- 


Roger  Catroris  Friend.  293 

versation,  slightly  exaggerated,  and  the  whole  interview  of 
the  Captain  with  the  widow,  with  sundry  additions,  became 
the  common  property  of  Sandy  Bar,  to  the  great  delight  of 
the  boys.  There  was  scarcely  a  person  who  had  ever 
had  business  or  social  relations  with  Roger  Catron,  whom 
"  The  Frozen  Truth,"  as  Sandy  Bar  delighted  to  designate 
the  Captain,  had  not  "  interviewed,"  as  simply  and  directly. 
It  is  said  that  he  closed  a  conversation  with  one  of  the  San 
Francisco  detectives,  who  had  found  Roger  Catron's  body, 
in  these  words :  "  And  now  hevin  got  throo'  bizness,  I  was 
goin'  to  ask  ye  what's  gone  of  Mat  Jones,  who  was  with 
ye  in  the  bush  in  Austraily.  Lord,  how  he  got  me  quite 
interested  in  ye,  telling  me  how  you  and  him  got  out  on  a 
ticket-of-leave,  and  was  chased  by  them  milishy  guards,  and 
at  last  swam  out  to  a  San  Francisco  bark  and  escaped;" 
but  here  the  inevitable  pressure  of  previous  business  always 
stopped  the  Captain's  conversational  flow.  The  natural 
result  of  this  was  a  singular  reaction  in  favour  of  the  late 
Roger  Catron  in  the  public  sentiment  of  Sandy  Bar,  so 
strong,  indeed,  as  to  induce  the  Rev.  Mr.  Joshua  M'Snagly, 
the  next  Sunday,  to  combat  it  with  the  moral  of  Catron's 
life.  After  the  service,  he  was  approached  in  the  vestibule, 
and  in  the  hearing  of  some  of  his  audience,  by  Captain 
Dick,  with  the  following  compliment :  "  In  many  pints  ye 
hed  jess  got  Roger  Catron  down  to  a  hair.  I  knew  ye'd 
do  it :  why,  Lord  love  ye,  you  and  him  had  pints  in 
common ;  and  when  he  giv'  ye  that  hundred  dollars  arter 
the  fire  in  Sacramento,  to  help  ye  rebuild  the  parsonage, 
he  said  to  me — me  not  likin'  ye  on  account  o'  my  being 
on  the  committee  that  invited  ye  to  resign  from  Marysville 
all  along  o'  that  affair  with  Deacon  Pursell's  darter ;  and  a 
piece  she  was,  parson  !  eh  ? — well,  Roger,  he  ups  and  sez 
to  me,  'Every  man  hez  his  faults,'  sez  he;  and,  sez  he, 
'  there's  no  reason  why  a  parson  ain't  a  human  being  like 


294  Roger  Catron's  Friend. 

us,  and  that  gal  o'  Pursell's  is  pizen,  ez  I  know/  So  ye 
see,  I  seed  that  ye  was  hittin'  yourself  over  Catron's 
shoulder,  like  them  early  martyrs."  But  here,  as  Captain 
Dick  was  clearly  blocking  up  all  egress  from  the  church, 
the  sexton  obliged  him  to  move  on,  and  again  he  was 
stopped  in  his  conversational  career. 

But  only  for  a  time.  Before  long,  it  was  whispered  that 
Captain  Dick  had  ordered  a  meeting  of  the  creditors, 
debtors,  and  friends  of  Roger  Catron  at  Robinson's  Hall. 
It  was  suggested,  with  some  show  of  reason,  that  this  had 
been  done  at  the  instigation  of  various  practical  jokers  of 
Sandy  Bar,  who  had  imposed  on  the  simple  directness  of 
the  Captain,  and  the  attendance  that  night  certainly  indi- 
cated something  more  than  a  mere  business  meeting.  All 
of  Sandy  Bar  crowded  into  Robinson's  Hall,  and  long  before 
Captain  Dick  made  his  appearance  on  the  platform,  with 
his  inevitable  memorandum-book,  every  inch  of  floor  was 
crowded. 

The  Captain  began  to  read  the  expenditures,  of  Roger 
Catron  with  relentless  fidelity  of  detail.  The  several  losses 
by  poker,  the  whisky  bills,  and  the  record  of  a  "jamboree" 
at  Tooley's,  the  vague  expenses  whereof  footed  up  $275, 
were  received  with  enthusiastic  cheers  by  the  audience.  A 
single  milliner's  bill  for  $125  was  hailed  with  delight;  $100 
expended  in  treating  the  Vestal  Virgin  Combination  Troupe 
almost  canonised  his  memory ;  $50  for  a  simple  buggy  ride 
with  Deacon  Fisk  brought  down  the  house  ;  $500  advanced, 
without  security,  and  unpaid,  for  the  electioneering  expenses 
of  Assemblyman  Jones,  who  had  recently  introduced  a  bill 
to  prevent  gambling  and  the  sale  of  lager  beer  on  Sundays, 
was  received  with  an  ominous  groan.  One  or  two  other 
items  of  money  loaned  occasioned  the  withdrawal  of  several 
gentlemen  from  the  audience  amidst  the  hisses  or  ironical 
cheers  of  the  others. 


Roger  Catrons  Friend.  295 

At  last  Captain  Dick  stopped  and  advanced  to  the  foot- 
lights. 

"  Gentlemen  and  friends,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  foots  up 
$25,000  as  Roger  Catron  hez  made,  fair  and  square,  in  this 
yer  county.  I  foots  up  $27,000  ez  he  has  spent  in  this  yer 
county.  I  puts  it  to  you  ez  men — far-minded  men — ef 
this  man  was  a  pauper  and  debtor  ?  I  put  it  to  you  ez  far- 
minded  men — ez  free  and  easy  men — ez  political  econo- 
mists— ez  this  the  kind  of  men  to  impoverish  a  county  ?  " 

An  overwhelming  and  instantaneous  "  No ! "  almost 
drowned  the  last  utterance  of  the  speaker. 

"Thar  is  only  one  item,"  said  Captain  Dick  slowly, 
"only  one  item,  that  ez  men — ez  far-minded  men — ez 
political  economists — it  seems  to  me  we  hez  the  right  to 
question.  It's  this :  Thar  is  an  item,  read  to  you  by  me, 
of  $2000  paid  to  certing  San  Francisco  detectives,  paid  out 
o'  the  assets  o'  Roger  Catron,  for  the  finding  of  Roger 
Catron's  body.  Gentlemen  of  Sandy  Bar  and  friends,  / 
found  that  body,  and  yer  it  is  ! " 

And  Roger  Catron,  a  little  pale  and  nervous,  but  palpably 
in  the  flesh,  stepped  upon  the  platform. 

Of  course  the  newspapers  were  full  of  it  the  next  day. 
Of  course,  in  due  time,  it  appeared  as  a  garbled  and  romantic 
item  in  the  San  Francisco  press.  Of  course  Mrs.  Catron, 
on  reading  it,  fainted,  and  for  two  days  said  that  this  last 
cruel  blow  ended  all  relations  between  her  husband  and 
herself.  On  the  third  day  she  expressed  her  belief  that,  if 
he  had  had  the  slightest  feeling  for  her  he  would  long  since, 
for  the  sake  of  mere  decency,  have  communicated  with  her. 
On  the  fourth  day  she  thought  she  had  been,  perhaps,  badly 
advised,  had  an  open  quarrel  with  her  relatives,  and  inti- 
mated that  a  wife  had  certain  obligations,  &c.  On  the  sixth 
day,  still  not  hearing  from  him,  she  quoted  Scripture,  spoke 
of  a  seventy-times-seven  forgiveness,  and  went  generally  into 


296  Roger  Catroris  Friend. 

mild  hysterics.     On  the  seventh,  she  left  in  the  morning 
train  for  Sandy  Bar. 

And  really  I  don't  know  as  I  have  anything  more  to  tell. 
I  dined  with  them  recently,  and,  upon  my  word,  a  more 
decorous,  correct,  conventional,  and  dull  dinner  I  never 
ate  in  my  life. 


297 


I  THINK  that  the  few  who  were  permitted  to  know  and  love 
the  object  of  this  sketch  spent  the  rest  of  their  days,  not 
only  in  an  attitude  of  apology  for  having  at  first  failed  to 
recognise  her  higher  nature,  but  of  remorse  that  they  should 
have  ever  lent  a  credulous  ear  to  d  priori  tradition  concern- 
ing her  family  characteristics.  She  had  not  escaped  that 
calumny  which  she  shared  with  the  rest  of  her  sex  for  those 
youthful  follies,  levities,  and  indiscretions  which  belong  to 
immaturity.  It  is  very  probable  that  the  firmness  that  dis- 
tinguished her  maturer  will  in  youth  might  have  been  taken 
for  obstinacy,  that  her  nice  discrimination  might  at  the  same 
period  have  been  taken  for  adolescent  caprice,  and  that  the 
positive  expression  of  her  quick  intellect  might  have  been 
thought  youthful  impertinence  before  her  years  had  won 
respect  for  her  judgment. 

She  was  foaled  at  Indian  Creek,  and  one  month  later, 
when  she  was  brought  over  to  Sawyer's  Bar,  was  considered 
the  smallest  donkey  ever  seen  in  the  foot-hills.  The  legend 
that  she  was  brought  over  in  one  of  "  Dan  the  Quartz 
Crusher's  "  boots  required  corroboration  from  that  gentle- 
man ;  but  his  denial  being  evidently  based  upon  a  masculine 
vanity  regarding  the  size  of  his  foot  rather  than  a  desire  to 
be  historically  accurate,  it  went  for  nothing.  It  is  certain 
that  for  the  next  two  months  she  occupied  the  cabin  of 
Dan,  until,  perhaps  incensed  at  this  and  other  scandals,  she 


298  "Jinny." 

one  night  made  her  way  out.  "  I  hadn't  the  least  idee  wot 
woz  comin',"  said  Dan,  "  but  about  midnight  I  seemed  to 
hear  hail  onto v  the  roof,  and  a  shower  of  rocks  and  stones 
like  to  a  blast  started  in  the  canon.  When  I  got  up  and 
struck  a  light,  thar  was  suthin'  like  onto  a  cord  o'  kindlin* 
wood  and  splinters  whar  she'd  stood  asleep,  and  a  hole  in 
the  side  o'  the  shanty,  and — no  Jinny  !  Lookin'  at  them 
hoofs  o'  hern — and  mighty  porty  they  is  to  look  at,  too — 
you  would  allow  she  could  do  it ! "  I  fear  that  this  per- 
formance laid  the  foundation  of  her  later  infelicitous  reputa- 
tion, and  perhaps  awakened  in  her  youthful  breast  a  misplaced 
ambition,  and  an  emulation  which  might  at  that  time  have 
been  diverted  into  a  nobler  channel.  For  the  fame  of  this 
juvenile  performance — and  its  possible  promise  in  the  future 
— brought  at  once  upon  her  the  dangerous  flattery  and 
attention  of  the  whole  camp.  Under  intelligently  directed 
provocation  she  would  repeat  her  misguided  exercise,  until 
most  of  the  scanty  furniture  of  the  cabin  was  reduced  to  a 
hopeless  wreck,  and  sprains  and  callosities  were  developed 
upon  the  limbs  of  her  admirers.  Yet  even  at  this  early 
stage  of  her  history,  that  penetrating  intellect  which  was  in 
after  years  her  dominant  quality  was  evident  to  all.  She 
could  not  be  made  to  kick  at  quartz  tailings,  at  a  barrel  of 
Boston  crackers,  or  at  the  head  or  shin  of  "  Nigger  Pete." 
An  artistic  discrimination  economised  her  surplus  energy. 
"  Ef  you'll  notiss,"  said  Dan,  with  a  large  parental  softness, 
"she  never  lets  herself  out  to  onst  like  them  mules  or  any 
jackass  ez  I've  heerd  of,  but  kinder  holds  herself  in,  and,  so 
to  speak,  takes  her  bearings — sorter  feels  round  gently  with 
that  off  foot,  takes  her  distance  and  her  rest,  and  then  with 
that  ar'  foot  hoverin'  round  in  the  air  softly,  like  an  angel's 
wing,  and  a  gentle,  dreamy  kind  o'  look  in  them  eyes,  she 
lites  out !  Don't  ye,  Jinny  ?  Thar  !  jist  ez  I  told  ye," 
continued  Dan,  with  an  artist's  noble  forgetfulness  of  self, 


"Jinny?  299 

as  he  slowly  crawled  from  the  splintered  ruin  of  the  barrel 
on  which  he  had  been  sitting.  "  Thar  !  did  ye  ever  see  the 
like  !  Did  ye  dream  that  all  the  while  I  was  talkin'  she  was 
a  meditatin'  that  ?  " 

The  same  artistic  perception  and  noble  reticence  distin- 
guished her  bray.  It  was  one  of  which  a  less  sagacious 
animal  would  have  been  foolishly  vain  or  ostentatiously 
prodigal.  It  was  a  contralto  of  great  compass  and  pro- 
fundity— reaching  from  low  G  to  high  C — perhaps  a  trifle 
stronger  in  the  lower  register,  and  not  altogether  free  from 
a  nasal  falsetto  in  the  upper.  Daring  and  brilliant  as  it  was 
in  the  middle  notes,  it  was  perhaps  more  musically  remark- 
able for  its  great  sustaining  power.  The  element  of  surprise 
always  entered  into  the  hearer's  enjoyment ;  long  after  any 
ordinary  strain  of  human  origin  would  have  ceased,  faint 
echoes  of  Jinny's  last  note  were  perpetually  recurring.  But 
it  was  as  an  intellectual  and  moral  expression  that  her  bray 
was  perfect.  As  far  beyond  her  size  as  were  her  aspirations, 
it  was  a  free  and  running  commentary  of  scorn  at  all  created 
things  extant,  with  ironical  and  sardonic  additions  that  were 
terrible.  It  reviled  all  human  endeavour,  it  quenched  all 
sentiments,  it  suspended  frivolity,  it  scattered  reverie,  it 
paralysed  action.  It  was  omnipotent.  More  wonderful  and 
characteristic  than  all,  the  very  existence  of  this  tremendous 
organ  was  unknown  to  the  camp  for  six  months  after  the 
arrival  of  its  modest  owner,  and  only  revealed  to  them  under 
circumstances  that  seemed  to  point  more  conclusively  than 
ever  to  her  rare  discretion. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a  warm  night  and  the  middle  of 
a  heated  political  discussion.  Sawyer's  Bar  had  gathered 
in  force  at  the  Crossing,  and  by  the  light  of  flaring  pine 
torches,  cheered  and  applauded  the  rival  speakers  who 
from  a  rude  platform  addressed  the  excited  multitude. 
Partisan  spirit  at  that  time  ran  high  in  the  foot-hills ; 


300  "Jinny? 

crimination  and  recrimination,  challenge,  reply,  accusation, 
and  retort  had  already  inflamed  the  meeting,  and  Colonel 
Bungstarter,  after  a  withering  review  of  his  opponent's 
policy,  culminated  with  a  personal  attack  upon  the  career 
and  private  character  of  the  eloquent  and  chivalrous 
Colonel  Culpepper  Starbottle  of  Siskiyou.  That  eloquent 
and  chivalrous  gentleman  was  known  to  be  present;  it 
was  rumoured  that  the  attack  was  expected  to  provoke  a 
challenge  from  Colonel  Starbottle  which  would  give  Bung- 
starter  the  choice  of  weapons,  and  deprive  Starbottle  of  his 
advantage  as  a  dead  shot.  It  was  whispered  also  that 
the  sagacious  Starbottle,  aware  of  this  fact,  would  retaliate 
in  kind  so  outrageously  as  to  leave  Bungstarter  no  recourse 
but  to  demand  satisfaction  on  the  spot.  As  Colonel  Star- 
bottle  rose,  the  eager  crowd  drew  together,  elbowing  each 
other  in  rapt  and  ecstatic  expectancy.  "He  can't  get 
even  on  Bungstarter,  onless  he  allows  his  sister  ran  off  with 
a  nigger,  or  that  he  put  up  his  grandmother  at  draw  poker 
and  lost  her,"  whispered  the  Quartz  Crusher  ;  "  kin  he  ?  " 
All  ears  were  alert,  particularly  the  very  long  and  hairy  ones 
just  rising  above  the  railing  of  the  speaker's  platform  ;  for 
Jinny,  having  a  feminine  distrust  of  solitude  and  a  fondness 
for  show,  had  followed  her  master  to  the  meeting  and  had 
insinuated  herself  upon  the  platform,  where  way  was  made 
for  her  with  that  frontier  courtesy  always  extended  to  her 
age  and  sex. 

Colonel  Starbottle,  stertorous  and  purple,  advanced  to 
the  railing.  There  he  unbuttoned  his  collar  and  laid  his 
neckcloth  aside,  then  with  his  eye  fixed  on  his  antagonist 
he  drew  off  his  blue  frock-coat,  and  thrusting  one  hand 
into  his  ruffled  shirt  front,  and  raising  the  other  to  the 
dark  canopy  above  him,  he  opened  his  vindictive  lips.  The 
action,  the  attitude,  were  Starbottle's.  But  the  voice  was 
not  For  at  that  supreme  moment,  a  bray — so  profound, 


"Jinny"  301 

BO  appalling,  so  utterly  soul  subduing,  so  paralysing  that 
everything  else  sank  to  mere  insignificance  beside  it — filled 
woods  and  sky  and  air.  For  a  moment  only  the  multitude 
gasped  in  speechless  astonishment — it  was  a  moment  only 
— and  then  the  welkin  roared  with  their  shouts.  In  vain 
silence  was  commanded,  in  vain  Colonel  Starbottle,  with 
a  ghastly  smile,  remarked  that  he  recognised  in  the  inter- 
ruption the  voice  and  intellect  of  the  opposition ;  the  laugh 
continued,  the  more  as  it  was  discovered  that  Jinny  had 
not  yet  finished,  and  was  still  recurring  to  her  original 
theme.  "Gentlemen,"  gasped  Starbottle,  "any  attempt 
by  [Hee-haw  !  from  Jinny]  brutal  buffoonery  to  restrict  the 
right  of  free  speech  to  all  [a  prolonged  assent  from  Jinny] 
is  worthy  only  the  dastardly  " — but  here  a  diminuendo  so 
long  drawn  as  k>  appear  a  striking  imitation  of  the 
Colonel's  own  apoplectic  sentences  drowned  his  voice  with 
shrieks  of  laughter. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  during  this  performance 
a  vigorous  attempt  was  not  made  to  oust  Jinny  from  the 
platform.  But  all  in  vain.  Equally  demoralising  in  either 
extremity,  Jinny  speedily  cleared  a  circle  with  her  flying 
hoofs,  smashed  the  speaker's  table  and  water  pitcher,  sent 
the  railing  flying  in  fragments  over  the  cheering  crowd,  and 
only  succumbed  to  two  blankets,  in  which,  with  her  head 
concealed,  she  was  finally  dragged,  half  captive,  half  victor, 
from  the  field.  Even  then  a  muffled  and  supplemental 
bray  that  came  from  the  woods  at  intervals  drew  half  the 
crowd  away  and  reduced  the  other  half  to  mere  perfunc- 
tory hearers.  The  demoralised  meeting  was  adjourned; 
Colonel  Starbottle's  withering  reply  remained  unuttered, 
and  the  Bungstarter  party  were  triumphant. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  Jinny  was  the  heroine  of  the 
hour,  but  no  cajolery  nor  flattery  could  induce  her  to  again 
exhibit  her  powers.  In  vain  did  Dean  of  Angel's  extern- 


302  "Jinny" 

porise  a  short  harangue  in  the  hope  that  Jinny  would  be 
tempted  to  reply ;  in  vain  was  every  provocation  offered 
that  might  sting  her  sensitive  nature  to  eloquent  revolt. 
She  replied  only  with  her  heels.  Whether  or  not  this 
was  simple  caprice,  or  whether  she  was  satisfied  with  her 
maiden  effort,  or  indignant  at  her  subsequent  treatment,  she 
remained  silent.  "  She  made  her  little  game,"  said  Dan, 
who  was  a  political  adherent  of  Starbottle's,  and  who  yet 
from  that  day  enjoyed  the  great  speaker's  undying  hatred, 
"  and  even  if  me  and  her  don't  agree  on  politics— you  let 
her  alone."  Alas,  it  would  have  been  well  for  Dan  if  he 
could  have  been  true  to  his  instincts,  but  the  offer  of  one 
hundred  dollars  from  the  Bungstarter  party  proved  too 
tempting.  She  passed  irrevocably  from  his  hands  into 
those  of  the  enemy.  But  any  reader  of  these  lines  will,  I 
trust,  rejoice  to  hear  that  this  attempt  to  restrain  free 
political  expression  in  the  foot-hills  failed  signally.  For, 
although  she  was  again  covertly  introduced  on  the  platform 
by  the  Bungstarters,  and  placed  face  to  face  with  Colonel 
Starbottle  at  Murphy's  Camp,  she  was  dumb.  Even  a 
brass  band  failed  to  excite  her  emulation.  Either  she  had 
become  disgusted  with  politics,  or  the  higher  prices  paid  by 
the  party  to  other  and  less  effective  speakers  aroused  her 
jealousy  and  shocked  her  self-esteem,  but  she  remained  a 
passive  spectator.  When  the  Hon.  Sylvester  Rourback, 
who  received,  for  the  use  of  his  political  faculties  for  a 
single  night,  double  the  sum  for  which  she  was  purchased 
outright,  appeared  on  the  same  platform  with  herself,  she 
forsook  it  hurriedly  and  took  to  the  woods.  Here  she 
might  have  starved  but  for  the  intervention  of  one  M'Carty, 
a  poor  market-gardener,  who  found  her,  and  gave  her  food 
and  shelter  under  the  implied  contract  that  she  should 
forsake  politics  and  go  to  work.  The  latter  she  for  a  long 
time  resisted,  but  as  she  was  considered  large  enough  by 


"Jinny."  303 

this  time  to  draw  a  dart,  M'Carty  broke  her  to  single 
harness,  with  a  severe  fracture  of  his  leg  and  the  loss  of 
four  teeth  and  a  small  spring  waggon.  At  length,  when  she 
could  be  trusted  to  carry  his  wares  to  Murphy's  Camp,  and 
could  be  checked  from  entering  a  shop  with  the  cart  at- 
tached to  her — a  fact  of  which  she  always  affected  perfect 
disbelief — her  education  was  considered  as  complete  as 
that  of  the  average  Californian  donkey.  It  was  still  unsafe 
to  leave  her  alone,  as  she  disliked  solitude,  and  always 
made  it  a  point  to  join  any  group  of  loungers  with  her  un- 
necessary cart,  and  even  to  follow  some  good-looking  miner 
to  his  cabin.  The  first  time  this  peculiarity  was  discovered 
by  her  owner  was  on  his  return  to  the  street  after  driving 
a  bargain  within  the  walls  of  the  Temperance  Hotel.  Jinny 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Her  devious  course,  however, 
was  pleasingly  indicated  by  vegetables  that  strewed  the 
road  until  she  was  at  last  tracked  to  the  veranda  of  the 
Arcade  saloon,  where  she  was  found  looking  through  the 
window  at  a  game  of  euchre,  and  only  deterred  by  the 
impeding  cart  from  entering  the  building.  A  visit  one 
Sunday  to  the  little  Catholic  chapel  at  French  Camp, 
where  she  attempted  to  introduce  an  antiphonal  service  and 
the  car-t,  brought  shame  and  disgrace  upon  her  unlucky 
master.  For  the  cart  contained  freshly-gathered  vegetables, 
and  the  fact  that  M'Carty  had  been  Sabbath-breaking  was 
painfully  evident.  Father  Sullivan  was  quick  to  turn  an 
incident  that  provoked  only  the  risibilities  of  his  audience 
into  a  moral  lesson.  "  It's  the  poor  dumb  beast  that  has 
a  more  Christian  sowl  than  Michael,"  he  commented ;  but 
here  Jinny  assented  so  positively  that  they  were  fain  to 
drag  her  away  by  main  force. 

To  her  eccentric  and  thoughtless  youth  succeeded  a  calm 
maturity,  in  which  her  conservative  sagacity  was  steadily 
developed.  She  now  worked  for  her  living,  subject, 


304  "Jinny" 

however,  to  a  nice  discrimination  by  which  she  limited 
herself  to  a  certain  amount  of  work,  beyond  which  neither 
threats,  beatings,  nor  cajoleries  would  force  her.  At  certain 
hours  she  would  start  for  the  stable  with  or  without  the  in- 
cumbrances  of  the  cart  or  Michael,  turning  two  long  and  deaf 
ears  on  all  expostulation  or  entreaty.  "  Now,  God  be  good  to 
me,"  said  Michael,  one  day,  picking  himself  out  from  a  ditch 
as  he  gazed  sorrowfully  after  the  flying  heels  of  Jinny,  "  but 
it's  only  the  second  load  of  cabbages  I'm  bringin'  the  day, 
and  if  she's  shtruck  now,  it's  ruined  I  am  entoirely."  But 
he  was  mistaken ;  after  two  hours  of  rumination  Jinny  re- 
turned of  her  own  freewill,  having  evidently  mistaken  the 
time,  and  it  is  said  even  consented  to  draw  an  extra  load  to 
make  up  the  deficiency.  It  may  be  imagined  from  this  and 
other  circumstances  that  Michael  stood  a  little  in  awe  of 
Jinny's  superior  intellect,  and  that  Jinny  occasionally,  with 
the  instinct  of  her  sex,  presumed  upon  it  After  the 
Sunday  episode,  already  referred  to,  she  was  given  her 
liberty  on  that  day,  a  privilege  she  gracefully  recognised  by 
somewhat  unbending  her  usual  austerity  in  the  indulgence 
of  a  saturnine  humour.  She  would  visit  the  mining  camps, 
and,  grazing  lazily  and  thoughtfully  before  the  cabins, 
would,  by  various  artifices  and  coquetries  known  to  the 
female  heart,  induce  some  credulous  stranger  to  approach 
her  with  the  intention  of  taking  a  ride.  She  would  submit 
hesitatingly  to  a  halter,  allow  him  to  mount  her  back,  and, 
with  every  expression  of  timid  and  fearful  reluctance,  at 
last  permit  him  to  guide  her  in  a  laborious  trot  out  of  sight 
of  human  habitation.  What  happened  then  was  never 
clearly  known.  In  a  few  moments  the  camp  would  be 
aroused  by  shouts  and  execrations,  and  the  spectacle  of 
Jinny  tearing  by  at  a  frightful  pace,  with  the  stranger 
clinging  with  his  arms  around  her  neck,  afraid  to  slip  off, 
from  terror  of  her  circumvolving  heels,  and  vainly  implor- 


"Jinny?  305 

ing  assistance.  Again  and  again  she  would  dash  by  the 
applauding  groups,  adding  the  aggravation  of  her  voice  to 
the  danger  of  her  heels,  until  suddenly  wheeling,  she  would 
gallop  to  Carter's  Pond  and  deposit  her  luckless  freight  in  the 
muddy  ditch.  This  practical  joke  was  repeated  until  one 
Sunday  she  was  approached  by  Juan  Ramirez,  a  Mexican 
vaquero,  booted  and  spurred,  and  carrying  a  riata.  A 
crowd  was  assembled  to  see  her  discomfiture.  But,  to  the 
intense  disappointment  of  the  camp,  Jinny,  after  quietly 
surveying  the  stranger,  uttered  a  sardonic  bray,  and  ambled 
away  to  the  little  cemetery  on  the  hill,  whose  tangled  chap- 
arral effectually  prevented  all  pursuit  by  her  skilled  anta- 
gonist From  that  day  she  forsook  the  camp,  and  spent 
her  Sabbaths  in  mortuary  reflections  among  the  pine  head- 
boards and  cold  "  hie  jacets  "  of  the  dead. 

Happy  would  it  have  been  if  this  circumstance,  which 
resulted  in  the  one  poetic  episode  of  her  life,  had  occurred 
earlier;  for  the  cemetery  was  the  favourite  resort  of  Miss 
Jessie  Lawton,  a  gentle  invalid  from  San  Francisco,  who  had 
sought  the  foot-hills  for  the  balsam  of  pine  and  fir,  and 
in  the  faint  hope  that  the  freshness  of  the  wild  roses  might 
call  back  her  own.  The  extended  views  from  the  cemetery 
satisfied  Miss  Lawton's  artistic  taste,  and  here  frequently, 
with  her  sketch-book  in  hand,  she  indulged  that  taste  and 
a  certain  shy  reserve  which  kept  her  from  contact  with 
strangers.  On  one  of  the  leaves  of  that  sketch-book  appears 
a  study  of  a  donkey's  head,  being  none  other  than  the  grave 
features  of  Jinny,  as  once  projected  timidly  over  the  artist's 
shoulder.  The  preliminaries  of  this  intimacy  have  never 
transpired,  nor  is  it  a  settled  fact  if  Jinny  made  the  first 
advances.  The  result  was  only  known  to  the  men  of 
Sawyer's  Bar  by  a  vision  which  remained  fresh  in  their 
memories  long  after  the  gentle  lady  and  her  four-footed 
friend  had  passed  beyond  their  voices.  As  two  of  the 

VOL.  III.  U 


306  "Jinny." 

tunnel-men  were  returning  from  work  one  evening,  they 
chanced  to  look  up  the  little  trail,  kept  sacred  from  secular 
intrusion,  that  led  from  the  cemetery  to  the  settlement.  In 
the  dim  twilight,  against  a  sunset  sky,  they  beheld  a  pale- 
faced  girl  riding  slowly  toward  them.  With  a  delicate 
instinct,  new  to  these  rough  men,  they  drew  closer  in  the 
shadow  of  the  bushes  until  she  passed.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  familiar  grotesqueness  of  Jinny;  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  languid  grace  of  Miss  Lawton.  But  a  wreath 
of  wild  roses  was  around  Jinny's  neck,  from  her  long  ears 
floated  Miss  Jessie's  hat  ribbons,  and  a  mischievous,  girlish 
smile  was  upon  Miss  Jessie's  face,  as  fresh  as  the  azaleas  in 
her  hair.  By  the  next  day  the  story  of  this  gentle  apparition 
was  known  to  a  dozen  miners  in  camp,  and  all  were  sworn  to 
secrecy.  But  the  next  evening,  and  the  next,  from  the  safe 
shadows  of  the  woods  they  watched  and  drank  in  the  beauty 
of  that  fanciful  and  all  unconscious  procession.  They  kept 
their  secret,  and  never  a  whisper  or  footfall  from  these  rough 
men  broke  its  charm  or  betrayed  their  presence.  The  man 
who  could  have  shocked  the  sensitive  reserve  of  the  young 
girl  would  have  paid  for  it  with  his  life. 

And  then  one  day  the  character  of  the  procession  changed, 
and  this  little  incident  having  been  told,  it  was  permitted 
that  Jinny  should  follow  her  friend,  caparisoned  even  as  be- 
fore, but  this  time  by  the  rougher  but  no  less  loving  hands  of 
men.  When  the  cortege  reached  the  ferry  where  the  dead 
girl  was  to  begin  her  silent  journey  to  the  sea,  Jinny  broke 
from  those  who  held  her,  and  after  a  frantic  effort  to  mount 
the  barge  fell  into  the  swiftly  rushing  Stanislaus.  A  dozen 
stout  arms  were  stretched  to  save  her,  and  a  rope  skilfully 
thrown  was  caught  around  her  feet.  For  an  instant  she  was 
passive,  and,  as  it  seemed,  saved.  But  the  next  moment 
her  dominant  instinct  returned,  and  with  one  stroke  of  her 
powerful  heel  she  snapped  the  rope  in  twain  and  so  drifted 
with  her  mistress  to  the  sea. 


(     30?     ) 


Ctoo  ©aints  of  tfie 


IT  never  was  clearly  ascertained  how  long  they  had  been 
there.  The  first  settler  of  Rough-and-Ready  —  one  Low, 
playfully  known  to  his  familiars  as  "  The  Poor  Indian  "  — 
declared  that  the  Saints  were  afore  his  time,  and  occupied 
a  cabin  in  the  brush  when  he  "  blazed  "  his  way  to  the  North 
Fork.  It  is  certain  that  the  two  were  present  when  the  water 
was  first  turned  on  the  Union  Ditch,  and  then  and  there 
received  the  designation  of  Daddy  Downey  and  Mammy 
Downey,  which  they  kept  to  the  last.  As  they  tottered  to- 
ward the  refreshment  tent,  they  were  welcomed  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm  by  the  boys  ;  or,  to  borrow  the  more 
refined  language  of  the  "  Union  Recorder,"  —  "  Their  gray 
hairs  and  bent  figures,  recalling  as  they  did  the  happy 
paternal  eastern  homes  of  the  spectators,  and  the  blessings 
that  fell  from  venerable  lips  when  they  left  those  homes  to 
journey  in  quest  of  the  Golden  Fleece  on  Occidental  Slopes, 
caused  many  to  burst  into  tears."  The  nearer  facts,  that 
many  of  these  spectators  were  orphans,  that  a  few  were 
unable  to  establish  any  legal  parentage  whatever,  that  others 
had  enjoyed  a  State's  guardianship  and  discipline,  and  that 
a  majority  had  left  their  parental  roofs  without  any  embar- 
rassing preliminary  formula,  were  mere  passing  clouds  that 
did  not  dim  the  golden  imagery  of  the  writer.  From  that 
day  the  Saints  were  adopted  as  historical  lay  figures,  and 
entered  at  once  into  possession  of  uninterrupted  gratuities 
and  endowment 


308  Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills. 

It  was  not  strange  that,  in  a  country  largely  made  up  of 
ambitious  and  reckless  youth,  these  two — types  of  conser- 
vative and  settled  forms — should  be  thus  celebrated.  Apart 
from  any  sentiment  or  veneration,  they  were  admirable  foils 
to  the  community's  youthful  progress  and  energy.  They, 
were  put  forward  at  every  social  gathering,  occupied  promi-  ' 
nent  seats  on  the  platform  at  every  public  meeting,  walked 
first  in  every  procession,  were  conspicuous  at  the  frequent 
funeral  and  rarer  wedding,  and  were  godfather  and  god- 
mother to  the  first  baby  born  in  Rough-and-Ready.  At  the 
first  poll  opened  in  that  precinct,  Daddy  Downey  cast  the 
first  vote,  and,  as  was  his  custom  on  all  momentous  occa- 
sions, became  volubly  reminiscent.  "  The  first  vote  I  ever 
cast,"  said  Daddy,  "  was  for  Andrew  Jackson — the  father  o' 
some  on  you  peart  young  chaps  wasn't  born  then  ;  he  !  he  ! 
—  that  was  'way  long  in '33,  wasn't  it?  I  disremember  now, 
but  if  Mammy  was  here,  she  bein'  a  school-gal  at  the  time, 
she  could  say.  But  my  memory's  failin'  me.  I'm  an  old 
man,  boys;  yet  I  likes  to  see  the  young  ones  go  ahead. 
I  recklect  that  thar  vote  from  a  suckumstance.  Squire 
Adams  was  present,  and  seein'  it  was  my  first  vote,  he  put 
a  goold  piece  into  my  hand,  and,  sez  he,  sez  Squire  Adams, 
*  Let  that  always  be  a  reminder  of  the  exercise  of  a  glorious 
freeman's  privilege  ! '  He  did  ;  he  !  he  !  Lord,  boys  !  I 
feel  so  proud  of  ye,  that  I  wish  I  had  a  hundred  votes  to 
cast  for  ye  all." 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  the  memorial  tribute  of 
Squire  Adams  was  increased  tenfold  by  the  judges,  inspectors, 
and  clerks,  and  that  the  old  man  tottered  back  to  Mammy 
considerably  heavier  than  he  came.  As  both  of  the  rival 
candidates  were  equally  sure  of  his  vote,  and  each  had  called 
upon  him  and  offered  a  conveyance,  it  is  but  fair  to  presume 
they  were  equally  beneficent.  But  Daddy  insisted  upon 
walking  to  the  polls, — a  distance  of  two  miles, — as  a  moral- 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills.          309 

example,  and  a  text  for  the  Californian  paragraphers,  who 
hastened  to  record  that  such  was  the  influence  of  the  foot- 
hill climate,  that  "  a  citizen  of  Rough-and-Ready,  aged  eighty- 
four,  rose  at  six  o'clock,  and,  after  milking  two  cows,  walked 
a  distance  of  twelve  miles  to  the  polls,  and  returned  in  time 
to  chop  a  cord  of  wood  before  dinner."  Slightly  exagger- 
ated as  this  statement  may  have  been,  the  fact  that  Daddy 
was  always  found  by  the  visitor  to  be  engaged  at  his  wood- 
pile, which  seemed  neither  to  increase  nor  diminish  under 
his  axe,  a  fact,  doubtless,  owing  to  the  activity  of  Mammy, 
who  was  always  at  the  same  time  making  pies,  seemed  to 
give  some  credence  to  the  story.  Indeed,  the  wood-pile  of 
Daddy  Downey  was  a  standing  reproof  to  the  indolent  and 
sluggish  miner. 

"  Ole  Daddy  must  use  up  a  pow'ful  sight  of  wood  ;  every 
time  I've  passed  by  his  shanty  he's  been  makin'  the  chips  .fly. 
But  what  gets  me  is,  that  the  pile  don't  seem  to  come  down," 
said  Whisky  Dick  to  his  neighbour. 

"  Well,  you  derned  fool  ! "  growled  his  neighbour,  "  spose 
some  chap  happens  to  pass  by  thar,  and  sees  the  ole 
man  doin'  at  man's  work  at  eighty,  and  slouches  like  you 
and  me  lying  round  drunk,  and  that  chap,  feelin'  kinder 
humped,  goes  up  some  dark  night  and  heaves  a  load  of 
cut  pine  over  his  fence,  who's  got  anything  to  say  about 
it?  say?" 

Certainly  not  the  speaker,  who  had  done  the  act  suggested, 
nor  the  penitent  and  remorseful  hearer,  who  repeated  it 
next  day. 

The  pies  and  cakes  made  by  the  old  woman  were,  I  think, 
remarkable  rather  for  their  inducing  the  same  loyal  and 
generous  spirit  than  for  their  intrinsic  excellence,  and,  it  may 
be  said,  appealed  more  strongly  to  the  nobler  aspirations  of 
humanity  than  its  vulgar  appetite.  Howbeit,  everybody  ate 
Mammy  Downey's  pies,  and  thought  of  his  childhood. 


3 IO          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills. 

"  Take  'em,  dear  boys,"  the  old  lady  would  say ;  "  it  does 
me  good  to  see  you  eat  'em ;  reminds  me  kinder  of  my  poor 
Sammy,  that  ef  he'd  lived,  would  hev  been  ez  strong  and  big 
ez  you  be,  but  was  taken  down  with  lung  fever  at  Sweet- 
water.  I  kin  see  him  yet;  that's  forty  year  ago,  dear! 
comin'  out  o'  the  lot  to  the  bakehouse,  and  smilin'  such  a 
beautiful  smile,  like  yours,  dear  boy,  as  I  handed  him  a 
mince  or  a  lemming  turnover.  Dear,  dear,  how  I  do  run  on ! 
and  those  days  is  past !  but  I  seems  to  live  in  you  again  ! " 
The  wife  of  the  hotel-keeper,  actuated  by  a  low  jealousy, 
had  suggested  that  she  "seemed  to  live  off  them;"  but  as 
that  person  tried  to  demonstrate  the  truth  of  her  statement 
by  reference  to  the  cost  of  the  raw  material  used  by  the  old 
lady,  it  was  considered  by  the  camp  as  too  practical  and 
economical  for  consideration.  "  Besides,"  added  Cy  Perkins, 
"  ef  old  Mammy  wants  to  turn  an  honest  penny  in  her  old 
age,  let  her  do  it.  How  would  you  like  your  old  mother 
to  make  pies  on  grub  wages  ?  eh  ?  "  A  suggestion  that  so 
affected  his  hearer  (who  had  no  mother)  that  he  bought 
three  on  the  spot.  The  quality  of  these  pies  had  never  been 
discussed  but  once.  It  is  related  that  a  young  lawyer  from 
San  Francisco,  dining  at  the  Palmetto  restaurant,  pushed 
away  one  of  Mammy  Downey's  pies  with  every  expression 
of  disgust  and  dissatisfaction.  At  this  juncture,  Whisky 
Dick,  considerably  affected  by  his  favourite  stimulant, 
approached  the  stranger's  table,  and,  drawing  up  a  chair, 
$at  uninvited  before  him. 

"  Mebbee,  young  man,"  he  began  gravely,  "ye  don't  like 
Mammy  Downey's  pies  ?  " 

The  stranger  replied  curtly,  and  in  some  astonishment, 
that  he  did  not,  as  a  rule,  "  eat  pie." 

"Young  man,"  continued  Dick  with  drunken  gravity, 
"mebbee  you're  accustomed  to  Charlotte  rusks  and  blue 
mange  ;  mebbee  ye  can't  eat  unless  your  grub  is  got  up  by 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills.          3 1 1 

one  o'  them  French  cooks  ?  Yet  we — us  boys  yar  in  this 
camp — calls  that  pie — a  good — a  com-pe-tent  pie  ! " 

The  stranger  again  disclaimed  anything  but  a  general  dis- 
like of  that  form  of  pastry. 

"  Young  man,"  continued  Dick,  utterly  unheeding  the 
explanation, — "  young  man,  mebbee  you  onst  had  an  ole — 
a  very  ole  mother,  who,  tottering  down  the  vale  o'  years, 
made  pies.  Mebbee,  and  it's  like  your  blank  epicurean 
soul,  ye  turned  up  your  nose  on  the  ole  woman,  and  went 
back  on  the  pies,  and  on  her  !  She  that  dandled  ye  when 
ye  woz  a  baby, — a  little  baby  !  Mebbee  ye  went  back  on  her, 
and  shook  her,  and  played  off  on  her,  and  gave  her  away — 
dead  away  !  And  now,  mebbee  young  man — I  wouldn't  hurt 
ye  for  the  world,  but  mebbee,  afore  ye  leave  this  yar  table, 
YE'LL  EAT  THAT  PIE  !  " 

The  stranger  rose  to  his  feet,  but  the  muzzle  of  a  dragoon 
revolver  in  the  unsteady  hands  of  Whisky  Dick  caused  him 
to  sit  down  again.  He  ate  the  pie,  and  lost  his  case  like- 
wise before  a  Rough-and-Ready  jury. 

Indeed,  far  from  exhibiting  the  cynical  doubts  and  distrusts 
of  age,  Daddy  Downey  received  always  with  childlike  delight 
the  progress  of  modem  improvement  and  energy.  "  In  my 
day,  long  back  in  the  twenties,  it  took  us  nigh  a  week — a 
week,  boys — to  get  up  a  barn,  and  all  the  young  ones — I 
was  one  then — for  miles  round  at  the  raisin' ;  and  yefs  you 
boys — rascals  ye  are,  too — runs  up  this  yer  shanty  for 
Mammy  and  me  'twixt  sun-up  and  dark !  Eh,  eh,  you're 
teachin'  the  old  folks  new  tricks,  are  ye  ?  Ah,  get  along, 
you  ! "  and  in  playful  simulation  of  anger  he  would  shake 
his  white  hair  and  his  hickory  staff  at  the  "rascals."  The 
only  indication  of  the  conservative  tendencies  of  age  was 
visible  in  his  continual  protest  against  the  extravagance  of 
the  boys.  "  Why,"  he  would  say,  "a  family,  ahull  family, — 
leavin'  alone  me  and  the  old  woman, — might  be  supported 


312          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot- Hills. 

on  what  you  young  rascals  throw  away  in  a  single  spree. 
Ah,  you  young  dogs,  didn't  I  hear  about  your  scattering 
half-dollars  on  the  stage  the  other  night  when  that  Eyetalian 
Papist  was  singin'.  And  that  money  goes  out  of  Ameriky 
— ivry  cent !  " 

There  was  little  doubt  that  the  old  couple  were  saving, 
if  not  avaricious.  But  when  it  was  known,  through  the 
indiscreet  volubility  of  Mammy  Downey,  that  Daddy 
Downey  sent  the  bulk  of  their  savings,  gratuities,  and  gifts, 
to  a  dissipated  and  prodigal  son  in  the  East, — whose 
photograph  the  old  man  always  carried  with  him,  it  rather 
elevated  him  in  their  regard.  "  When  ye  write  to  that  gay 
and  festive  son  o'  yourn,  Daddy,"  said  Joe  Robinson, 
"  send  him  this  yer  specimen.  Give  him  my  compliments, 
and  tell  him,  ef  he  kin  spend  money  faster  than  I  can,  I 
call  him  !  Tell  him,  ef  he  wants  a  first-class  jamboree,  to 
kem  out  here,  and  me  and  the  boys  will  show  him  what  a 
square  drunk  is  ! "  In  vain  would  the  old  man  continue 
to  protest  against  the  spirit  of  the  gift ;  the  miner  generally 
returned  with  his  pockets  that  much  the  lighter,  and  it  is 
not  improbable  a  little  less  intoxicated  than  he  otherwise 
might  have  been.  It  may  be  premised  that  Daddy  Downey 
was  strictly  temperate.  The  only  way  he  managed  to  avoid 
hurting  the  feelings  of  the  camp  was  by  accepting  the  fre- 
quent donations  of  whisky  to  be  used  for  the  purposes  of 
liniment. 

"  Next  to  snake-oil,  my  son,"  he  would  say,  "  and  dilberry- 
juice, — and  ye  don't  seem  to  pro-duce  'em  hereabouts, — 
whisky  is  good  for  rubbin'  onto  old  bones  to  make  'em 
limber.  But  pure  cold  water,  'sparklin'  and  bright  in  its 
liquid  light,'  and,  so  to  speak,  reflectin'  of  God's  own 
linyments  on  its  surnss,  is  the  best,  onless,  like  poor  ol' 
Mammy  and  me,  ye  gets  the  dumb-agur  from  over-use." 

The  fame  of  the  Downey  couple  was  not  confined  to  the 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills.          313 

foot-nills.  The  Rev.  Henry  Gushington,  D.D.,  of  Boston, 
making  a  bronchial  tour  of  California,  wrote  to  the  "  Chris- 
tian Pathfinder "  an  affecting  account  of  his  visit  to  them, 
placed  Daddy  Downey's  age  at  102,  and  attributed  the 
recent  conversions  in  Rough-and-Ready  to  their  influence. 
That  gifted  literary  Hessian,  Bill  Smith,  travelling  in  the 
interests  of  various  capitalists,  and  the  trustworthy  corre- 
spondent of  four  "only  independent  American  journals," 
quoted  him  as  an  evidence  of  the  longevity  superinduced 
by  the  climate,  offered  him  as  an  example  of  the  security 
of  helpless  life  and  property  in  the  mountains,  used  him  as 
an  advertisement  of  the  Union  Ditch,  and  it  is  said,  in 
some  vague  way,  cited  him  as  proving  the  collateral  facts  of 
a  timber  and  ore-producing  region  existing  in  the  foot-hills 
worthy  the  attention  of  Eastern  capitalists. 

Praised  thus  by  the  lips  of  distinguished  report,  fostered 
by  the  care  and  sustained  by  the  pecuniary  offerings  of  their 
fellow-citizens,  the  Saints  led  for  two  years  a  peaceful  life  of 
gentle  absorption.  To  relieve  them  from  the  embarrassing 
appearance  of  eleemosynary  receipts, — an  embarrassment  felt 
more  by  the  givers  than  the  recipients, — the  postmastership 
of  Rough-and-Ready  was  procured  for  Daddy,  and  the  duty 
of  receiving  and  delivering  the  United  States  mails  performed 
by  him,  with  the  advice  and  assistance  of  the  boys.  If  a 
few  letters  went  astray  at  this  time,  it  was  easily  attributed 
to  this  undisciplined  aid,  and  the  boys  themselves  were  always 
ready  to  make  up  the  value  of  a  missing  money-letter  and 
"  keep  the  old  man's  accounts  square."  To  these  functions 
presently  were  added  the  treasurerships  of  the  Masons'  and 
Odd  Fellows'  charitable  funds, — the  old  man  being  far 
advanced  in  their  respective  degrees,  —  and  even  the  position 
of  almoner  of  their  bounties  was  superadded.  Here,  unfor- 
tunately, Daddy's  habits  of  economy  and  avaricious  pro- 
pensity came  near  making  him  unpopular,  and  very  often 


314          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot- Hills. 

needy  brothers  were  forced  to  object  to  the  quantity  and 
quality  of  the  help  extended.  They  always  met  with  more 
generous  relief  from  the  private  hands  of  the  brothers  them- 
selves, and  the  remark,  "  that  the  ol'  man  was  trying  to  set 
an  example, — that  he  meant  well," — and  that  they  would 
yet  be  thankful  for  his  zealous  care  and  economy.  A  few, 
I  think,  suffered  in  noble  silence,  rather  than  bring  the  old 
man's  infirmity  to  the  public  notice. 

And  so  with  this  honour  of  Daddy  and  Mammy,  the 
days  of  the  miners  were  long  and  profitable  in  the  land  of  the 
foot-hills.  The  mines  yielded  their  abundance,  the  winters 
were  singularly  open,  and  yet  there  was  no  drouth  nor  lack 
of  water,  and  peace  and  plenty  smiled  on  the  Sierrean  foot- 
hills, from  their  highest  sunny  upland  to  the  trailing  falda 
of  wild  oats  and  poppies.  If  a  certain  superstition  got 
abroad  among  the  other  camps,  connecting  the  fortunes  of 
Rough-and-Ready  with  Daddy  and  Mammy,  it  was  a  gentle, 
harmless  fancy,  and  was  not,  I  think,  altogether  rejected 
by  the  old  people.  A  certain  large,  patriarchal,  bountiful 
manner,  of  late  visible  in  Daddy,  and  the  increase  of  much 
white  hair  and  beard,  kept  up  the  poetic  illusion,  while 
Mammy,  day  by  day,  grew  more  and  more  like  somebody's 
fairy  godmother.  An  attempt  was  made  by  a  rival  camp  to 
emulate  these  paying  virtues  of  reverence,  and  an  aged 
mariner  was  procured  from  the  Sailor's  Snug  Harbour  in 
San  Francisco  on  trial.  But  the  unfortunate  seaman  was 
more  or  less  diseased,  was  not  always  presentable,  through 
a  weakness  for  ardent  spirits,  and  finally,  to  use  the  power- 
ful idiom  of  one  of  his  disappointed  foster-children,  "  up 
and  died  in  a  week,  without  slinging  ary  blessin'. " 

But  vicissitude  reaches  young  and  old  alike.  Youthful 
Rough-and-Ready  and  the  Saints  had  climbed  to  their 
meridian  together,  and  it  seemed  fit  that  they  should  to- 
gether decline.  The  first  shadow  fell  with  the  immigration 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills.          315 

to  Rough-and-Ready  of  a  second  aged  pair.  The  land- 
lady of  the  Independence  Hotel  had  not  abated  her 
malevolence  towards  the  Saints,  and  had  imported  at  con- 
siderable expense  her  grand-aunt  and  grand-uncle,  who  had 
been  enjoying  for  some  years  a  sequestered  retirement  in 
the  poorhouse  at  East  Machias.  They  were  indeed  very 
old.  By  what  miracle,  even  as  anatomical  specimens,  they 
had  been  preserved  during  their  long  journey  was  a  mys- 
tery to  the  camp.  In  some  respects  they  had  superior 
memories  and  reminiscences.  The  old  man — Abner  Trix 
— had  shouldered  a  musket  in  the  war  of  1812  ;  his  wife, 
Abigail,  had  seen  Lady  Washington.  She  could  sing 
hymns ;  he  knew  every  text  between  "  the  leds "  of  a 
Bible.  There  is  little  doubt  but  that  in  many  respects,  to 
the  superficial  and  giddy  crowd  of  youthful  spectators,  they 
were  the  more  interesting  spectacle. 

Whether  it  was  jealousy,  distrust,  or  timidity  that  over- 
came the  Saints,  was  never  known,  but  they  studiously 
declined  to  meet  the  strangers.  When  directly  approached 
upon  the  subject,  Daddy  Downey  pleaded  illness,  kept  him- 
self in  close  seclusion,  and  the  Sunday  that  the  Trixes 
attended  church  in  the  schoolhouse  on  the  hill,  the  triumph 
of  the  Trix  party  was  mitigated  by  the  fact  that  the 
Downeys  were  not  in  their  accustomed  pew.  "You  bet 
that  Daddy  and  Mammy  is  lying  low  jest  to  ketch  them 
old  mummies  yet,"  explained  a  Downeyite.  For  by  this 
time  schism  and  division  had  crept  into  the  camp  j  the 
younger  and  later  members  of  the  settlement  adhering  to 
the  Trixes,  while  the  older  pioneers  stood  not  only  loyal 
to  their  own  favourites,  but  even,  in  the  true  spirit  of  parti- 
sanship, began  to  seek  for  a  principle  underlying  their 
personal  feelings.  "  I  tell  ye  what,  boys,"  observed  Sweet- 
water  Joe,  "  if  this  yer  camp  is  goin'  to  be  run  by  green- 
horns, and  old  pioneers,  like  Daddy  and  the  rest  of  us, 


3i  6          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot- Hills. 

must  take  back  seats,  it's  time  we  emigrated  and  shoved 
out,  and  tuk  Daddy  with  us.  Why,  they're  talkin'  of  rota- 
tion in  offiss,  and  of  putting  that  skeleton  that  Ma'am 
Decker  sets  up  at  the  table  to  take  her  boarders'  appetites 
away,  into  the  post-office  in  place  o'  Daddy."  And,  indeed, 
there  were  some  fears  of  such  a  conclusion  ;  the  newer  men 
of  Rough-and-Ready  were  in  the  majority,  and  wielded  a 
more  than  equal  influence  of  wealth  and  outside  enterprise. 
"Frisco,"  as  a  Downeyite  bitterly  remarked,  "already 
owned  half  the  town."  The  old  friends  that  rallied  around 
Daddy  and  Mammy  were,  like  most  loyal  friends  in  adver- 
sity, in  bad  case  themselves,  and  were  beginning  to  look 
and  act,  it  was  observed,  not  unlike  their  old  favourites. 

At  this  juncture  Mammy  died. 

The  sudden  blow  for  a  few  days  seemed  to  reunite  dis- 
severed Rough-and-Ready.  Both  factions  hastened  to  the 
bereaved  Daddy  with  rpndolements,  and  offers  of  aid  and 
assistance.  But  the  old  man  received  them  sternly.  A 
change  had  come  over  the  weak  and  yielding  octogenarian. 
Those  who  expected  to  find  him  maudlin,  helpless,  disconso- 
late, shrank  from  the  cold,  hard  eyes  and  truculent  voice 
that  bade  them  "  begone,"  and  "  leave  him  with  his  dead." 
Even  his  own  friends  failed  to  make  him  respond  to  their 
sympathy,  and  were  fain  to  content  themselves  with  his  cold 
intimation  that  both  the  wishes  of  his  dead  wife  and  his 
own  instincts  were  against  any  display,  or  the  reception  of 
any  favour  from  the  camp  that  might  tend  to  keep  up  the 
divisions  they  had  innocently  created.  The  refusal  of 
Daddy  to  accept  any  service  offered  was  so  unlike  him  as 
to  have  but  one  dreadful  meaning  !  The  sudden  shock 
had  turned  his  brain  !  Yet  so  impressed  were  they  with  his 
resolution  that  they  permitted  him  to  perform  the  last  sad 
offices  himself,  and  only  a  select  few  of  his  nearer  neighbours 
assisted  him  in  carrying  the  plain  deal  coffin  from  his  lonely 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-Hills.          317 

cabin  in  the  woods  to  the  still  lonelier  cemetery  on  the  hill- 
top. When  the  shallow  grave  was  filled,  he  dismissed  even 
these  curtly,  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin,  and  for  days  re- 
mained unseen.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  no  longer  in 
his  right  mind. 

His  harmless  aberration  was  accepted  and  treated  with  a 
degree  of  intelligent  delicacy  hardly  to  be  believed  of  so 
rough  a  community.  During  his  wife's  sudden  and  severe 
illness,  the  safe  containing  the  funds  intrusted  to  his  care 
by  the  various  benevolent  associations  was  broken  into  and 
robbed,  and  although  the  act  was  clearly  attributable  to  his 
carelessness  and  preoccupation,  all  allusion  to  the  fact  was 
withheld  from  him  in  his  severe  affliction.  When  he 
appeared  again  before  the  camp,  and  the  circumstances 
were  considerately  explained  to  him,  with  the  remark  that 
"the  boys  had  made  it  all  right,"  the  vacant,  hopeless, 
unintelligent  eye  that  he  turned  upon  the  speaker  showed 
too  plainly  that  he  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  "Don't 
trouble  the  old  man,"  said  Whisky  Dick,  with  a  burst  of 
honest  poetry.  "  Don't  ye  see  his  memory's  dead,  and 
lying  there  in  the  coffin  with  Mammy?"  Perhaps  the 
speaker  was  nearer  right  than  he  imagined. 

Failing  in  religious  consolation,  they  took  various  means 
of  diverting  his  mind  with  worldly  amusements,  and  one 
was  a  visit  to  a  travelling  variety  troupe,  then  performing 
in  the  town.  The  result  of  the  visit  was  briefly  told  by 
Whisky  Dick.  "  Well,  sir,  we  went  in,  and  I  sot  the  old 
man  down  in  a  front  seat,  and  kinder  propped  him  up  with 
some  other  of  the  fellers  round  him,  and  there  he  sot  as 
silent  and  awful  ez  the  grave.  And  then  that  fancy  dancer, 
Miss  Grace  Somerset,  comes  in,  and  dern  my  skin,  ef  the 
old  man  didn't  get  to  trembling  and  fidgeting  all  over,  as 
she  cut  them  pidgin  wings.  I  tell  ye  what,  boys,  men  is 
men,  way  down  to  their  boots, — whether  they're  crazy  or 


3 1 8          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot-  Hills. 

rot !  Well,  he  took  on  so,  that  I'm  blamed  if  at  last  that 
gal  herself  didn't  notice  him  !  and  she  ups,  suddenly,  and 
blows  him  a  kiss— so  !  with  her  fingers  !" 

Whether  this  narration  were  exaggerated  or  not,  it  is 
certain  that  the  old  man  Downey  every  succeeding  night  of 
the  performance  was  a  spectator.  That  he  may  have  aspired 
to  more  than  that  was  suggested  a  day  or  two  later  in  the 
following  incident :  A  number  of  the  boys  were  sitting 
around  the  stove  in  the  Magnolia  saloon,  listening  to  the 
onset  of  a  winter  storm  against  the  windows,  when  Whisky 
Dick,  tremulous,  excited,  and  bristling  with  rain-drops  and 
information,  broke  in  upon  them. 

"Well,  boys,  I've  got  just  the  biggest  thing  out  Ef  I 
hadn't  seed  it  myself,  I  wouldn't  hev  believed  it ! " 

"  It  ain't  thet  ghost  ag'in  ?  "  growled  Robinson,  from  the 
depths  of  his  arm-chair ;  "  thet  ghost's  about  played." 

"  Wot  ghost  ?  "  asked  a  new-comer. 

"Why,  ole  Mammy's  ghost,  that  every  feller  about  yer 
sees  when  he's  half  full  and  out  late  o'  nights." 

"Where?" 

"Where?  Why,  where  should  a  ghost  be?  Meanderin' 
round  her  grave  on  the  hill,  yander,  in  course." 

"  It's  suthin  bigger  nor  thet,  pard,"  said  Dick  confidently ; 
"  no  ghost  kin  rake  down  the  pot  ag'in  the  keerds  I've  got 
here.  This  ain't  no  bluff !" 

"  Well,  go  on  ! "  said  a  dozen  excited  voices. 

Dick  paused  a  moment  diffidently,  with  the  hesitation  of 
an  artistic  raconteur. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  with  affected  deliberation,  "  let's  see  ! 
It's  nigh  onto  an  hour  ago  ez  I  was  down  thar  at  the  variety 
show.  When  the  curtain  was  down  betwixt  the  ax,  I  looks 
round  fer  Daddy.  No  Daddy  thar  !  I  goes  out  and  asks 
some  o'  the  boys.  '  Daddy  was  there  a  minnit  ago/  they 
say;  'must  hev  gone  home.'  Bein'  kinder  responsible  for 


Two  Saints  of  the  Foot- Hills.          319 

the  old  man,  I  hangs  around,  and  goes  out  in  the  hall  and 
sees  a  passage  leadin'  behind  the  scenes.  Now  the  queer 
thing  about  this,  boys,  ez  that  suthin  in  my  bones  tells 
me  the  old  man  is  thar.  I  pushes  in,  and,  sure  as  a 
gun,  I  hear  his  voice.  Kinder  pathetic,  kinder  pleadin', 
kinder  " 

"  Love-makin  !  "  broke  in  the  impatient  Robinson. 

"  You've  hit  it,  pard, — you've  rung  the  bell  every  time  1 
But  she  says,  *  I  wants  thet  money  down,  or  I'll ' — and  here 
I  couldn't  get  to  hear  the  rest.  And  then  he  kinder  coaxes, 
and  she  says,  sorter  sassy,  but  listenin'  all  the  time, — 
woman  like,  ye  know,  Eve  and  the  sarpint ! — and  she  says, 
*  I'll  see  to-morrow.'  And  he  says,  '  You  won't  blow  on 
me  ? '  and  I  gets  excited  and  peeps  in,  and  may  I  be  teeto- 
tally  durned  ef  I  didn't  see  " 

"What?  "yelled  the  crowd. 

"  Why,  Daddy  on  his  knees  to  that  there  fancy  dancer, 
Grace  Somerset !  Now,  if  Mammy's  ghost  is  meanderin ' 
round,  why,  et's  about  time  she  left  the  cemetery  and  put 
in  an  appearance  in  Jackson's  Hall.  Thet's  all ! " 

"  Look  yar,  boys,"  said  Robinson,  rising,  "  I  don't  know 
ez  it's  the  square  thing  to  spile  Daddy's  fun.  I  don't  object 
to  it,  provided  she  ain't  takin'  in  the  old  man,  and  givin' 
him  dead  away.  But  ez  we're  his  guardeens,  I  propose  that 
we  go  down  thar  and  see  the  lady,  and  find  out  ef  her  inten- 
tions is  honourable.  If  she  means  marry,  and  the  old  man 
persists,  why,  I  reckon  we  kin  give  the  young  couple  a  send- 
off  thet  won't  disgrace  this  yer  camp  !  Hey,  boys  ?  " 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  proposition  was  received 
with  acclamation,  and  that  the  crowd  at  once  departed  on 
their  discreet  mission.  But  the  result  was  never  known,  for 
the,  next  morning  brought  a  shock  to  Rough-and-Ready 
before  which  all  other  interest  paled  to  nothingness. 

The  grave  of  Mammy  Downey  was  found  violated  and 


320          Two  Saints  of  the  Foot- Hills. 

despoiled ;  the  coffin  opened,  and  half  filled  with  the  papers 
and  accounts  of  the  robbed  benevolent  associations;  but 
the  body  of  Mammy  was  gone  !  Nor,  on  examination,  did 
it  appear  that  the  sacred  and  ancient  form  of  that  female 
had  ever  reposed  in  its  recesses  ! 

Daddy  Downey  was  not  to  be  found,  nor  is  it  necessary 
to  say  that  the  ingenuous  Grace  Somerset  was  also  missing. 

For  three  days  the  reason  of  Rough- and- Ready  trembled 
in  the  balance.  No  work  was  done  in  the  ditches,  in  the 
flume,  nor  in  the  mills.  Groups  of  men  stood  by  the  grave 
of  the  lamented  relict  of  Daddy  Downey,  as  open-mouthed 
and  vacant  as  that  sepulchre.  Never  since  the  great  earth- 
quake of  '52  had  Rough-and- Ready  been  so  stirred  to  its 
deepest  foundations. 

On  the  third  day  the  sheriff  of  Calaveras — a  quiet, 
gentle,  thoughtful  man — arrived  in  town,  and  passed  from 
one  to  the  other  of  excited  groups,  dropping  here  and  there 
detached  but  concise  and  practical  information. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Downey  is  not 
dead,  because  there  wasn't  any  Mrs.  Downey !  Her  part 
was  played  by  George  F.  Fenwick,  of  Sydney, — a  *  ticket- 
of-leave-man/  who  was,  they  say,  a  good  actor.  Downey? 
Oh  yes  !  Downey  was  Jem  Flanigan,  who,  in  '52,  used  to 
run  the  variety  troupe  in  Australia,  where  Miss  Somerset 
made  her  debut.  Stand  back  a  little,  boys.  Steady  !  The 
money  ?  Oh  yes,  they've  got  away  with  that,  sure  !  How 
are  ye,  Joe  ?  Why,  you're  looking  well  and  hearty !  I 
rather  expected  ye  court  week.  How's  things  your  way  ?  " 

"  Then  they  were  only  play-actors,  Joe  Hall  ?  "  broke  in 
a  dozen  voices. 

"  I  reckon  !  "  returned  the  sheriff  coolly. 

"And  for  a  matter  o'  five  blank  years,"  said  Whisky 
Dick  sadly,  "  they  played  this  camp  !  " 


"  (EOfjo  toa#  mg  dutet  jTrtenti  ? " 

"  STRANGER ! " 

The  voice  was  not  loud,  but  clear  and  penetrating.  I 
looked  vainly  up  and  down  the  narrow,  darkening  trail. 
No  one  in  the  fringe  of  alder  ahead ;  no  one  on  the  gullied 
slope  behind. 

"Oh!  stranger!" 

This  time  a  little  impatiently.  The  Californian  classical 
vocative,  "  Oh,"  always  meant  business. 

I  looked  up,  and  perceived  for  the  first  time  on  the  ledge, 
thirty  feet  above  me,  another  trail  parallel  with  my  own, 
and  looking  down  upon  me  through  the  buckeye  bushes  a 
small  man  on  a  black  horse. 

Five  things  to  be  here  noted  by  the  circumspect  moun- 
taineer. Firs^  the  locality, — lonely  and  inaccessible,  and 
away  from  the  regular  faring  of  teamsters  and  miners. 
Secondly ',  the  stranger's  superior  knowledge  of  the  road, 
from  the  fact  that  the  other  trail  was  unknown  to  the 
ordinary  traveller.  Thirdly,  that  he  was  well  armed  and 
equipped.  Fourthly,  that  he  was  better  mounted.  Fifthly, 
that  any  distrust  or  timidity  arising  from  the  contemplation 
of  these  facts  had  better  be  kept  to  one's  sel£ 

All  this  passed  rapidly  through  my  mind  as  I  returned 
his  salutation. 

"  Got  any  tobacco  ?  "  he  asked. 

I  had,  and  signified  the  fact,  holding  up  the  pouch 
inquiringly. 

VOL.  in.  X 


322         "  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?" 

"All  right,  I'll  come  down.  Ride  on,  and  I'll  jine  ye 
on  the  slide." 

"The  slide!"  Here  was  a  new  geographical  discovery 
as  odd  as  the  second  trail.  I  had  ridden  over  the  trail  a 
dozen  times,  and  seen  no  communication  between  the  ledge 
and  trail.  Nevertheless,  I  went  on  a  hundred  yards  or  so, 
when  there  was  a  sharp  crackling  in  the  underbrush,  a 
shower  of  stones  on  the  trail,  and  my  friend  plunged  through 
the  bushes  to  my  side,  down  a  grade  that  I  should  scarcely 
have  dared  to  lead  my  horse.  There  was  no  doubt  he  was 
an  accomplished  rider, — another  fact  to  be  noted. 

As  he  ranged  beside  me,  I  found  I  was  not  mistaken  as 
to  his  size ;  he  was  quite  under  the  medium  height,  and 
but  for  a  pair  of  cold,  grey  eyes,  was  rather  commonplace 
in  feature. 

"  You've  got  a  good  horse  there,"  I  suggested. 

He  was  filling  his  pipe  from  my  pouch,  but  looked  up  a 
little  surprised,  and  said,  "  Of  course."  He  then  puffed 
away  with  the  nervous  eagerness  of  a  man  long  deprived 
of  that  sedative.  Finally,  between  the  puffs,  he  asked  me 
whence  I  came. 

I  replied,  "  From  Lagrange." 

He  looked  at  me  a  few  moments  curiously,  but  on  my 
adding  that  I  had  only  halted  there  for  a  few  hours,  he  said : 
"  I  thought  I  knew  every  man  between  Lagrange  and 
Indian  Spring,  but  somehow  I  sorter  disremember  your 
face  and  your  name." 

Not  particularly  caring  that  he  should  remember  either, 
I  replied  half  laughingly,  that,  as  I  lived  the  other  side  of 
Indian  Spring,  it  was  quite  natural.  He  took  the  rebuff,  if 
such  it  was,  so  quietly  that  as  an  act  of  mere  perfunctory 
politeness  I  asked  him  where  he  came  from. 

"Lagrange." 

"  And  are  you  going  to " 


"  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?"        323 

"Well !  that  depends  pretty  much  on  how  things  pan  out, 
and  whether  I  can  make  the  riffle."  He  let  his  hand  rest 
quite  unconsciously  on  the  leathern  holster  of  his  dragoon 
revolver,  yet  with  a  strong  suggestion  to  me  of  his  ability 
"to  make  the  riffle"  if  he  wanted  to,  and  added:  "But 
just  now  I  was  reck'nin'  on  taking  a  little  pasear  with  you." 

There  was  nothing  offensive  in  his  speech  save  its  famili- 
arity, and  the  reflection,  perhaps,  that  whether  I  objected 
or  not,  he  was  quite  able  to  do  as  he  said.  I  only  replied 
that  if  our  pasear  was  prolonged  beyond  Heavy-tree  Hill,  I 
should  have  to  borrow  his  beast.  To  my  surprise  he  replied 
quietly,  "  That's  so,"  adding  that  the  horse  was  at  my  dis- 
posal when  he  wasn't  using  it,  and  half  of  it  when  he  was. 
"  Dick  has  carried  double  many  a  time  before  this,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  and  kin  do  it  again ;  when  your  mustang  gives 
out  I'll  give  you  a  lift  and  room  to  spare." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  idea  of  appearing  before 
the  boys  at  Red  Gulch  en  croupe  with  the  stranger ;  but 
neither  could  I  help  being  oddly  affected  by  the  suggestion 
that  his  horse  had  done  double  duty  before.  "  On  what 
occasion,  and  why  ?  "  was  a  question  I  kept  to  myself.  We 
were  ascending  the  long,  rocky  flank  of  the  divide;  the 
narrowness  of  the  trail  obliged  us  to  proceed  slowly,  and  in 
file,  so  that  there  was  little  chance  for  conversation,  had  he 
been  disposed  to  satisfy  my  curiosity. 

We  toiled  on  in  silence,  the  buckeye  giving  way  to  chirm- 
sal,  the  westering  sun,  reflected  again  from  the  blank  walls 
beside  us,  blinding  our  eyes  with  its  glare.  The  pines  in 
the  canon  below  were  olive  gulfs  of  heat,  over  which  a  hawk 
here  and  there  drifted  lazily,  or,  rising  to  our  level,  cast  a 
weird  and  gigantic  shadow  of  slowly  moving  wings  on  the 
mountain  side.  The  superiority  of  the  stranger's  horse  led 
him  often  far  in  advance,  and  made  me  hope  that  he  might 
forget  me  entirely,  or  push  on,  growing  weary  of  waiting. 


324         "  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?" 

But  regularly  he  would  halt  by  a  boulder,  or  reappear  from 
some  chimisal,  where  he  had  patiently  halted.  I  was  begin- 
ning to  hate  him  mildly,  when  at  one  of  those  reappearances 
he  drew  up  to  my  side,  and  asked  me  how  I  liked  Dickens  ! 

Had  he  asked  my  opinion  of  Huxley  or  Darwin,  I  could 
not  have  been  more  astonished.  Thinking  it  were  possible 
that  he  referred  to  some  local  celebrity  of  Lagrange,  I  said, 
hesitatingly : — 

"  You  mean  " 

"  Charles  Dickens.  Of  course  you've  read  him  ?  Which 
of  his  books  do  you  like  best  ?  " 

I  replied  with  considerable  embarrassment  that  I  liked 
them  all, — as  I  certainly  did. 

He  grasped  my  hand  for  a  moment  with  a  fervour  quite 
unlike  his  usual  phlegm,  and  said,  "That's  me,  old  man. 
Dickens  ain't  no  slouch.  You  can  count  on  him  pretty 
much  all  the  time." 

With  this  rough  preface,  he  launched  into  a  criticism  of 
the  novelist,  which  for  intelligent  sympathy  and  hearty 
appreciation  I  had  rarely  heard  equalled.  Not  only  did  he 
dwell  upon  the  exuberance  of  his  humour,  but  upon  the 
power  of  his  pathos  and  the  all-pervading  element  of  his 
poetry.  I  looked  at  the  man  in  astonishment.  I  had  con- 
sidered myself  a  rather  diligent  student  of  the  great  master 
of  fiction,  but  the  stranger's  felicity  of  quotation  and  illus- 
tration staggered  me.  It  is  true,  that  his  thought  was  not 
always  clothed  in  the  best  language,  and  often  appeared  in 
the  slouching,  slangy  undress  of  the  place  and  period,  yet 
it  never  was  rustic  nor  homespun,  and  sometimes  struck 
me  with  its  precision  and  fitness.  Considerably  softened 
toward  him,  I  tried  him  with  other  literature.  But  vainly. 
Beyond  a  few  of  the  lyrical  and  emotional  poets,  he  knew 
nothing.  Under  the  influence  and  enthusiasm  of  his  own 
speech,  he  himself  had  softened  considerably ;  offered  to 


"  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?"         325 

change  horses  with  me,  readjusted  my  saddle  with  profes- 
sional skill,  transferred  my  pack  to  his  own  horse,  insisted 
upon  my  sharing  the  contents  of  his  whisky  flask,  and  notic- 
ing that  I  was  unarmed,  pressed  upon  me  a  silver-mounted 
Derringer,  which  he  assured  me  he  could  "  warrant."  These 
various  offices  of  good  will  and  the  diversion  of  his  talk  be- 
guiled me  from  noticing  the  fact  that  the  trail  was  beginning 
to  become  obscure  and  unrecognisable.  We  were  evi- 
dently pursuing  a  route  unknown  before  to  me.  I  pointed 
out  the  fact  to  my  companion,  a  little  impatiently.  He 
instantly  resumed  his  old  manner  and  dialect. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  one  trail's  as  good  as  another,  and 
what  hev  ye  got  to  say  about  it  1 " 

I  pointed  out,  with  some  dignity,  that  I  preferred  the  old 
trail.  * 

"  Mebbe  you  did.  But  you're  jiss  now  takin'  a  pasear 
with  me.  This  yer  trail  will  bring  you  right  into  Indian 
Spring,  and  onnoticed,  and  no  questions  asked.  Don't  you 
mind  now,  I'll  see  you  through." 

It  was  necessary  here  to  make  some  stand  against  my 
strange  companion.  I  said  firmly,  yet  as  politely  as  I 
could,  that  I  had  proposed  stopping  over  night  with  a 
friend. 

"Whar?" 

I  hesitated.  The  friend  was  an  eccentric  Eastern  man, 
well  known  in  the  locality  for  his  fastidiousness  and  his 
habits  as  a  recluse.  A  misanthrope,  of  ample  family  and 
ample  means,  he  had  chosen  a  secluded  but  picturesque 
valley  in  the  Sierras  where  he  could  rail  against  the  world 
without  opposition.  "  Lone  Valley,"  or  "  Boston  Ranch," 
as  it  was  familiarly  called,  was  the  one  spot  that  the  average 
miner  both  respected  and  feared.  Mr.  Sylvester,  its  pro- 
prietor, had  never  affiliated  with  "the  boys,"  nor  had  he 
ever  lost  their  respect  by  any  active  opposition  to  their  ideas. 


326         "  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?" 

If  seclusion  had  been  his  object,  he  certainly  was  gratified. 
Nevertheless,  in  the  darkening  shadows  of  the  night,  and 
on  a  lonely  and  unknown  trail,  I  hesitated  a  little  at  repeat- 
ing his  name  to  a  stranger  of  whom  I  knew  so  little.  But 
my  mysterious  companion  took  the  matter  out  of  my 
hands. 

"  Look  yar,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "  thar  ain't  but  one  place 
'twixt  yer  and  Indian  Spring  whar  ye  can  stop,  and  that  is 
Sylvester's." 

I  assented,  a  little  sullenly. 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  quietly,  and  with  a  slight 
suggestion  of  conferring  a  favour  on  me,  "  ef  yer  pointed 
for  Sylvester's — why — /  don't  mind  stopping  thar  with  ye. 
It's  a  little  off  the  road — I'll  lose  some  time — but  taking  it 
by  and  large,  Itlon't  much  mind." 

I  stated,  as  rapidly  and  as  strongly  as  I  could,  that  my 
acquaintance  with  Mr.  Sylvester  did  not  justify  the  intro- 
duction of  a  stranger  to  his  hospitality ;  that  he  was  unlike 
most  of  the  people  here, — in  short,  that  he  was  a  queer 
man,  &c.,  &c. 

To  my  surprise  my  companion  answered  quietly :  "  Oh, 
that's  all  right.  I've  heerd  of  him.  Ef  you  don't  feel  like 
checking  me  through,  or  if  you'd  rather  put  '  C.  O.  D.'  on 
my  back,  why  it's  all  the  same  to  me.  I'll  play  it  alone. 
Only  you  just  count  me  in.  Say  '  Sylvester '  all  the  time. 
That's  me!" 

What  could  I  oppose  to  this  man's  quiet  assurance  ?  I 
felt  myself  growing  red  with  anger  and  nervous  with  embar- 
rassment. What  would  the  correct  Sylvester  say  to  me  ? 
What  would  the  girls, — I  was  a  young  man  then,  and  had 
won  an  entree  to  their  domestic  circle  by  my  reserve, 
known  by  a  less  complimentary  adjective  among  "the 
boys," — what  would  they  say  to  my  new  acquaintance  ? 
Yet  I  certainly  could  not  object  to  his  assuming  all  risks  on 


"  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?'''        327 

his  own  personal  recognisances,  nor  could  I  resist  a  certain 
feeling  of  shame  at  my  embarrassment 

We  were  beginning  to  descend.  In  the  distance  below 
us  already  twinkled  the  lights  in  the  solitary  rancho  of  Lone 
Valley.  I  turned  to  my  companion.  "  But  you  have  for- 
gotten that  I  don't  even  know  your  name.  What  am  I  to 
call  you  ?  " 

''That's  so,"  he  said,  musingly.  "Now,  let's  see. 
*  Kearney '  would  be  a  good  name.  It's  short  and  easy 
like.  Thar's  a  street  in  'Frisco  the  same  title ;  Kearney  it 
is." 

"  But " I  began  impatiently. 

"  Now  you  leave  all  that  to  me,"  he  interrupted,  with  a 
superb  self-confidence  that  I  could  not  but  admire.  "  The 
name  ain't  no  account.  It's  the  man  that's  responsible. 
Ef  I  was  to  lay  for  a  man  that  I  reckoned  was  named 
Jones,  and  after  I  fetched  him  I  found  out  on  the  inquest 
that  his  real  name  was  Smith,  that  wouldn't  make  no 
matter,  as  long  as  I  got  the  man." 

The  illustration,  forcible  as  it  was,  did  not  strike  me  as 
offering  a  prepossessing  introduction,  but  we  were  already 
at  the  rancho.  The  barking  of  dogs  brought  Sylvester  to 
the  door  of  the  pretty  little  cottage  which  his  taste  had 
adorned. 

I  briefly  introduced  Mr.  Kearney.  "  Kearney  will  do — 
Kearney's  good  enough  for  me,"  commented  the  soi-disant 
Kearney  half-aloud,  to  my  own  horror  and  Sylvester's 
evident  mystification,  and  then  he  blandly  excused  himself 
for  a  moment  that  he  might  personally  supervise  the  care 
of  his  own  beast.  When  he  was  out  of  ear-shot  I  drew  the 
puzzled  Sylvester  aside. 

"  I  have  picked  up — I  mean  I  have  been  picked  up  on 
the  road  by  a  gentle  maniac,  whose  name  is  not  Kearney. 
He  is  well  armed  and  quotes  Dickens.  With  care,  acquies- 


328         "  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?" 

cence  in  his  views  on  all  subjects,  and  general  submission 
to  his  commands,  he  may  be  placated.  Doubtless  the 
spectacle  of  your  helpless  family,  the  contemplation  of  your 
daughter's  beauty  and  innocence,  may  touch  his  fine  sense 
of  humour  and  pathos.  Meanwhile,  Heaven  help  you,  and 
forgive  me." 

I  ran  upstairs  to  the  little  den  that  my  hospitable  host 
had  kept  always  reserved  for  me  in  my  wanderings.  I 
lingered  some  time  over  my  ablutions,  hearing  the  languid, 
gentlemanly  drawl  of  Sylvester  below,  mingled  with  the 
equally  cool,  easy  slang  of  my  mysterious  acquaintance. 
When  I  came  down  to  the  sitting-room  I  was  surprised, 
however,  to  find  the  self-styled  Kearney  quietly  seated  on 
the  sofa,  the  gentle  May  Sylvester,  the  "Lily  of  Lone 
Valley,"  sitting  with  maidenly  awe  and  unaffected  interest 
on  one  side  of  him,  while  on  the  o&er  that  arrant  flirt,  her 
cousin  Kate,  was  practising -the  pitiless  archery  of  her  eyes, 
with  an  excitement  that  seemed  almost  real. 

"  Who  is  your  deliciously  cool  friend  ?  "  she  managed  to 
whisper  to  me  at  supper,  as  I  sat  utterly  dazed  and  bewil- 
dered between  the  enrapt  May  Sylvester,  who  seemed  to 
hang  upon  his  words,  and  this  giddy  girl  of  the  period,  who 
was  emptying  the  battery  of  her  charms  in  active  rivalry 
upon  him.  "  Of  course  we  know  his  name  isn't  Kearney. 
But  how  romantic !  And  isn't  he  perfectly  lovely  ?  And 
who  is  he  ?  " 

I  replied  with  severe  irony  that  I  was  not  aware  what 
foreign  potentate  was  then  travelling  incognito  in  the  Sierras 
of  California,  but  that  when  his  royal  highness  was  pleased 
to  inform  me,  I  should  be  glad  to  introduce  him  properly. 
"  Until  then,"  I  added,  "  I  fear  the  acquaintance  must  be 
Morganatic." 

"  You're  only  jealous  of  him,"  she  said  pertly.  "  Look 
at  May — she  is  completely  fascinated.  And  her  father,  too.r 


"  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?"         329 

And  actually,  the  languid,  world-sick,  cynical  Sylvester  was 
regarding  him  with  a  boyish  interest  and  enthusiasm  almost 
incompatible  with  his  nature.  Yet  I  submit  honestly  to  the 
clear-headed  reason  of  my  own  sex,  that  I  could  see 
nothing  more  in  the  man  than  I  have  already  delivered  to 
the  reader. 

In  the  middle  of  an  exciting  story  of  adventure,  of  which 
he,  to  the  already  prejudiced  mind  of  his  fair  auditors,  was 
evidently  the  hero,  he  stopped  suddenly. 

"It's  only  some  pack  train  passing  the  bridge  on  the 
lower  trail,"  explained  Sylvester  ;  "go  on." 

"  It  may  be  my  horse  is  a  trifle  oneasy  in  the  stable," 
said  the  alleged  Kearney  j  "  he  ain't  used  to  boards  and 
covering."  Heaven  only  knows  what  wild  and  delicious 
revelation  lay  in  the  statement  of  this  fact,  but  the  girls 
looked  at  each  other  with  cheeks  pink  with  excitement  as 
Kearney  arose,  and  with  quiet  absence  of  ceremony  quitted 
the  table. 

"Ain't  he  just  lovely?"  said  Kate,  gasping  for  breath, 
"  and  so  witty." 

"  Witty  ! "  said  the  gentle  May,  with  just  the  slightest 
trace  of  defiance  in  her  sweet  voice  ;  "  witty,  my  dear  ?  why, 
don't  you  see  that  his  heart  is  just  breaking  with  pathos  ? 
Witty,  indeed  ;  why,  when  he  was  speaking  of  that  poor 
Mexican  woman  that  was  hung,  I  saw  the  tears  gather  in 
his  eyes.  Witty,  indeed  ! " 

"Tears,"  laughed  the  cynical  Sylvester,  "tears,  idle  tears. 
Why,  you  silly  children,  the  man  is  a  man  of  the  world,  a 
philosopher,  quiet,  observant,  unassuming." 

"  Unassuming  !  "  Was  Sylvester  intoxicated,  or  had  the 
mysterious  stranger  mixed  the  "insane  verb"  with  the  family 
pottage?  He  returned  before  I  could  answer  this  self-asked 
inquiry,  and  resumed  coolly  his  broken  narrative.  Finding 
myself  forgotten  in  the  man  I  had  so  long  hesitated  to  in- 


33O        "  Who  was  my  Quiet  Friend?" 

traduce  to  my  friends,  I  retired  to  rest  early,  only  to  hear, 
through  the  thin  partitions,  two  hours  later,  enthusiastic 
praises  of  the  new  guest  from  the  voluble  lips  of  the  girls, 
as  they  chatted  in  the  next  room  before  retiring. 

At  midnight  I  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
and  the  jingling  of  spurs  below.  A  conversation  between 
my  host  and  some  mysterious  personage  in  the  darkness 
was  carried  on  in  such  a  low  tone  that  I  could  not  learn 
its  import.  As  the  cavalcade  rode  away  I  raised  the 
window. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Sylvester,  coolly,  "  only  another  one  of 
those  playful  homicidal  freaks  peculiar  to  the  country.  A 
man  was  shot  by  Cherokee  Jack  over  at  Lagrange  this 
morning,  and  that  was  the  sheriff  of  Calaveras  and  his 
posse  hunting  him.  I  told  him  I'd  seen  nobody  but  you 
and  your  friend.  By  the  way,  I  hope  the  cursed  noise 
hasn't  disturbed  him.  The  poor  fellow  looked  as  if  he 
wanted  rest." 

I  thought  so  too.  Nevertheless,  I  went  softly  to  his 
room.  It  was  empty.  My  impression  was  that  he  had 
distanced  the  sheriff  of  Calaveras  about  two  hours. 


(     33'     ) 


"3  Courist  from  3fnjtanng* 


99 


WE  first  saw  him  from  the  deck  of  the  "  Unser  Fritz,"  as 
that  gallant  steamer  was  preparing  to  leave  the  port  of  New 
York  for  Plymouth,  Havre,  and  Hamburg.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  all  objects  at  that  moment  became  indelibly  impressed 
on  the  memory  of  the  departing  voyager — perhaps  it  was 
that  mere  interrupting  trivialities  always  assume  undue 
magnitude  to  us  when  we  are  waiting  for  something  really 
important — but  I  retain  a  vivid  impression  of  him  as  he 
appeared  on  the  gangway  in  apparently  hopeless,  yet,  as  it 
afterwards  appeared,  really  triumphant,  altercation  with  the 
German-speaking  deck-hands  and  stewards.  He  was  not 
an  heroic  figure.  Clad  in  a  worn  linen  duster,  his  arms 
filled  with  bags  and  parcels,  he  might  have  been  taken  for 
a  hackman  carrying  the  luggage  of  his  fare.  But  it  was 
noticeable  that,  although  he  calmly  persisted  in  speaking 
English  and  ignoring  the  voluble  German  of  his  anta- 
gonists, he  in  some  rude  fashion  accomplished  his  object, 
without  losing  his  temper  or  increasing  his  temperature, 
while  his  foreign  enemy  was  crimson  with  rage  and  per- 
spiring with  heat ;  and  that  presently,  having  violated  a 
dozen  of  the  ship's  regulations,  he  took  his  place  by  the 
side  of  a  very  pretty  girl,  apparently  his  superior  in  station, 
who  addressed  him  as  "father."  As  the  great  ship  swung  out 
into  the  stream  he  was  still  a  central  figure  on  our  deck, 
getting  into  everybody's  way,  addressing  all  with  equal 


332  "A  Tourist  from  Injianny" 

familiarity,  imperturbable  to  affront  or  snub,  but  always 
doggedly  and  consistently  adhering  to  one  purpose,  how- 
ever trivial  or  inadequate  to  the  means  employed.  "  You're 
sittin'  on  suthin'  o'  mine,  miss,"  he  began  for  the  third  or 
fourth  time  to  the  elegant  Miss  Montmorris,  who  was  re- 
visiting Europe  under  high  social  conditions.  "  Jist  rise  up 
while  I  get  it — 'twon't  take  a  minit."  Not  only  was  that 
lady  forced  to  rise,  but  to  make  necessary  the  rising  and 
discomposing  of  the  whole  Montmorris  party  who  were 
congregated  around  her.  The  missing  "  suthin' "  was  dis- 
covered to  be  a  very  old  and  battered  newspaper.  "  It's 
the  Cincinnatty  Times,"  he  explained,  as  he  quietly  took 
it  up,  oblivious  to  the  indignant  glances  of  the  party.  "  It's 
a  little  squoshed  by  your  sittin'  on  it,  but  it'll  do  to  re-fer 
to.  It's  got  a  letter  from  Payris,  showin'  the  prices  o'  them 
thar  hotels  and  rist'rants,  and  I  allowed  to  my  darter  we 
might  want  it  on  the  other  side.  Thar's  one  or  two  French 
names  thar  that  rather  gets  me — mebbee  your  eyes  is 
stronger  ; "  but  here  the  entire  Montmorris  party  rustled 
away,  leaving  him  with  the  paper  in  one  hand — the  other 
pointing  at  the  paragraph.  Not  at  all  discomfited,  he 
glanced  at  the  vacant  bench,  took  possession  of  it  with 
his  hat,  "  duster,"  and  umbrella,  disappeared,  and  presently 
appeared  again  with  his  daughter,  a  lank-looking  young 
man,  and  an  angular  elderly  female,  and —  so  replaced  the 
Montmorrises. 

When  we  were  fairly  at  sea  he  was  missed.  A  pleasing 
belief  that  he  had  fallen  overboard,  or  had  been  left  behind 
was  dissipated  by  his  appearance  one  morning,  with  his 
daughter  on  one  arm,  and  the  elderly  female  before  alluded 
to  on  the  other.  The  "  Unser  Fritz "  was  rolling  heavily 
at  the  time,  but  with  his  usual  awkward  pertinacity  he 
insisted  upon  attempting  to  walk  toward  the  best  part  of 
the  deck,  as  he  always  did,  as  if  it  were  a  right  and  a  duty. 


"A  Tourist  from  Injianny"          333 

A  lurch  brought  him  and  his  uncertain  freight  in  contact 
with  the  Montmorrises,  there  was  a  moment  of  wild  con- 
fusion, two  or  three  seats  were  emptied,  and  he  was  finally 
led  away  by  the  steward,  an  obviously  and  obtrusively  sick 
man.  But  when  he  had  disappeared  below  it  was  noticed 
that  he  had  secured  two  excellent  seats  for  his  female 
companions.  Nobody  dared  to  disturb  the  elder,  nobody 
cared  to  disturb  the  younger — who  it  may  be  here  recorded 
had  a  certain  shy  reserve  which  checked  aught  but  the 
simplest  civilities  from  the  male  passengers. 

A  few  days  later  it  was  discovered  that  he  was  not  an 
inmate  of  the  first,  but  of  the  second  cabin ;  that  the 
elderly  female  was  not  his  wife  as  popularly  supposed,  but 
the  room-mate  of  his  daughter  in  the  first  cabin.  These 
facts  made  his  various  intrusions  on  the  saloon  deck  the 
more  exasperating  to  the  Montmorrises,  yet  the  more 
difficult  to  deal  with.  Eventually,  however,  he  had,  as 
usual,  his  own  way ;  no  place  was  sacred,  or  debarred 
his  slouched  hat  and  duster.  They  were  turned  out  of 
the  engine-room  to  reappear  upon  the  bridge,  they  were 
forbidden  the  forecastle  to  rise  a  ghostly  presence  beside 
the  officer  in  his  solemn  supervision  of  the  compass.  They 
would  have  been  lashed  to  the  rigging  on  their  way  to  the 
maintop,  but  for  the  silent  protest  of  his  daughter's  presence 
on  the  deck.  Most  of  his  interrupting  familiar  conversation 
was  addressed  to  the  interdicted  "man  at  the  wheel." 

Hitherto  I  had  contented  myself  with  the  fascination  of 
his  presence  from  afar — wisely,  perhaps,  deeming  it  dan- 
gerous to  a  true  picturesque  perspective  to  alter  my  dis- 
tance, and  perhaps,  like  the  best  of  us,  I  fear,  preferring 
to  keep  my  own  idea  of  him  than  to  run  the  risk  of  alter- 
ing it  by  a  closer  acquaintance.  But  one  day  when  I  was 
lounging  by  the  stern  rail,  idly  watching  the  dogged  ostenta- 
tion of  the  screw,  that  had  been  steadily  intimating,  after 


334  "  ^  Tourist  from  Injianny" 

the  fashion  of  screws,  that  it  was  the  only  thing  in  the  ship 
with  a  persistent  purpose,  the  ominous  shadow  of  the 
slouched  hat  and  the  trailing  duster  fell  upon  me.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  accept  it  meekly.  Indeed,  my 
theory  of  the  man  made  me  helpless. 

"I  didn't  know  till  yesterday  who  you  be,"  he  began 
deliberately,  "or  I  shouldn't  hev'  been  so  onsocial.  But 
I've  allers  told  my  darter  that  in  permiskiss  trav'lin'  a  man 
oughter  be  keerful  of  who  he  meets.  I've  read  some  of 
your  writin's — read  'em  in  a  paper  in  Injianny,  but  I  never 
reckoned  I'd  meet  ye.  Things  is  queer,  and  trav'lin'  brings 
all  sorter  people  together.  My  darter  Looeze  suspected  ye 
from  the  first,  and  she  worried  over  it,  and  kinder  put  me 
up  to  this." 

The  most  delicate  flattery  could  not  have  done  more. 
To  have  been  in  the  thought  of  this  reserved  gentle  girl, 
who  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  even  those  who  had  paid  her 
attention,  was 

"  She  put  me  up  to  it,"  he  continued  calmly,  "  though 
she,  herself,  hez  a  kind  o'  pre-judise  again  you  and  your 
writin's — thinkin'  them  sort  o'  low  down,  and  the  folks 
talked  about  not  in  her  style — and  ye  know  that's  woman's 
nater,  and  she  and  Miss  Montmorris  agree  on  that  point. 
But  thar's  a  few  friends  with  me  round  yer  ez  would  like 
to  see  ye."  He  stepped  aside  and  a  dozen  men  appeared 
in  Indian  file  from  behind  the  round-house,  and  with  a 
solemnity  known  only  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  nature,  shook 
my  hand  deliberately,  and  then  dispersed  themselves  in 
various  serious  attitudes  against  the  railings.  They  were 
honest,  well-meaning  countrymen  of  mine,  but  I  could  not 
recall  a  single  face. 

There  was  a  dead  silence ;  the  screw,  however,  osten- 
tatiously went  on.  "You  see  what  I  told  you,"  it  said. 
"This  is  all  vapidity  and  trifling.  I'm  the  only  fellow 


"A  Tourist  from  Injianny"          335 

here  with  a  purpose.  Whiz,  whiz,  whiz;  chug,  chug, 
chug!" 

I  was  about  to  make  some  remark  of  a  general  nature, 
when  I  was  greatly  relieved  to  observe  my  companion's 
friends  detach  themselves  from  the  railings,  and  with  a 
slight  bow  and  another  shake  of  the  hand,  severally  retire, 
apparently  as  much  relieved  as  myself.  My  companion, 
who  had  in  the  meantime  acted  as  if  he  had  discharged 
himself  of  a  duty,  said,  "  Thar  oilers  must  be  some  one  to 
tend  to  this  kind  o'  thing,  or  thar's  no  sociableness.  I  took 
a  deppytation  into  the  cap'n's  room  yesterday  to  make  some 
proppysitions,  and  thar's  a  minister  of  the  Gospel  aboard 
ez  orter  be  spoke  to  afore  next  Sunday,  and  I  reckon  it's 
my  dooty,  onless,"  he  added  with  deliberate  and  formal 
politeness,  "youFd  prefer  to  do  it — bein'  so  to  speak  a 
public  man." 

But  the  public  man  hastily  deprecated  any  interference 
with  the  speakers  functions,  and  to  change  the  conversa- 
tion, remarked  that  he  had  heard  that  there  were  a  party 
of  Cook's  tourists  on  board,  and — were  not  the  preceding 
gentlemen  of  the  number?  But  the  question  caused  the 
speaker  to  lay  aside  his  hat,  take  a  comfortable  position  on 
the  deck,  against  the  rail,  and  drawing  his  knees  up  under 
his  chin  to  begin  as  follows  : — 

"  Speaking  o'  Cook  and  Cook's  tourists,  I'm  my  own 
Cook  !  I  reckon  I  calkilate  and  know  every  cent  that  I'll 
spend  'twixt  Evansville,  Injianny,  and  Rome  and  Naples, 
and  everything  I'll  see."  He  paused  a  moment,  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  familiarly  on  my  knee,  said,  "  Did  I  ever  tell 
ye  how  I  kem  to  go  abroad  ?  " 

As  we  had  never  spoken  together  before,  it  was  safe  to 
reply  that  he  had  not.  He  rubbed  his  head  softly  with 
his  hand,  knitted  his  iron  grey  brows,  and  then  said  medi- 
tatively, "  No  !  it  must  hev  been  that  head  waiter.  He 


336  "A  Tourist  from  Injianny" 

sorter  favours  you  in  the  musstache  and  gen'ral  get  up.  I 
guess  it  war  him  I  spoke  to." 

I  thought  it  must  have  been. 

"  Well,  then,  this  is  the  way  it  kem  about  I  was  sittin' 
one  night,  about  three  months  ago,  with  my  darter  Looeze 
— my  wife  bein'  dead  some  four  year — and  I  was  reading 
to  her  out  of  the  paper  about  the  Exposition.  She  sez  to 
me,  quiet-like, — she's  a  quiet  sort  o'  gal  if  you  ever  notissed 
her, — '  I  should  like  to  go  thar ; '  I  looks  at  her — it  was 
the  first  time  sense  her  mother  died  that  that  gal  had  ever 
asked  for  anything,  or  had,  so  to  speak,  a  wish.  It  wasn't 
her  way.  She  took  everything  ez  it  kem,  and  durn  my 
skin  ef  I  ever  could  tell  whether  she  ever  wanted  it  to  kem 
in  any  other  way.  I  never  told  ye  this  afore,  did  I  ?  " 

"No,"  I  said  hastily.     "Goon." 

He  felt  his  knees  for  a  moment,  and  then  drew  a  long 
breath.  "Perhaps,"  he  began  deliberately,  "ye  don't  know 
that  I'm  a  poor  man.  Seein'  me  here  among  these  rich 
folks,  goin'  abroad  to  Par<?£  with  the  best  o'  them,  and 
Looeze  thar — in  the  first  cabin — a  lady,  ez  she  is — ye 
wouldn't  b'leeve  it,  but  I'm  poor  !  I  am.  Well,  sir,  when 
that  gal  looks  up* at  me  and  sez  that — I  hadn't  but  twelve 
dollars  in  my  pocket  and  I  ain't  the  durned  fool  that  I  look 
— but  suthin'  in  me — suthin',  you  know,  a  way  back  in  me 
— sez,  You  shall !  Loo-ey,  you  shall !  and  then  I  sez — 
repeatin'  it,  and  looking  up  right  in  her  eyes — '  You  shall  go, 
Loo-ey ' — did  you  ever  look  in  my  gal's  eyes  ?  " 

I  parried  that  somewhat  direct  question  by  another,  "  But 
the  twelve  dollars — how  did  you  increase  that  ?  " 

"  I  raised  it  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars.  I  got  odd 
jobs  o'  work  here  and  there,  overtime — I'm  a  machinist. 
I  used  to  keep  this  yer  over- work  from  Loo — saying  I  had 
to  see  men  in  the  evenin'  to  get  pints  about  Europe — and 
that — and  getting  a  little  money  raised  on  my  life-insurance, 


"A  Tourist  from  Injianny"  337 

I  shoved  her  through.  And  here  we  is,  Chipper  and  first 
class — all  through — that  is,  Loo  is  !  " 

"  But  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  !  And  Rome  and 
Naples  and  return  ?  You  can't  do  it." 

He  looked  at  me  cunningly  a  moment  "  Kan't  do  it  ? 
I've  done  it ! " 

"Done  it?" 

"  Wall,  about  the  same,  I  reckon :  I've  figgered  it  out. 
Figgers  don't  lie.  I  ain't  no  Cook's  tourist :  I  kin  see  Cook 
and  give  him  pints.  I  tell  you  I've  figgered  it  out  to  a  cent, 
and  I've  money  to  spare.  Of  course  I  don't  reckon  to 
travel  with  Loo.  She'll  go  first  class.  But  I'll  be  near  her 
if  it's  in  the  steerage  of  a  ship,  or  in  the  baggage  car  of  a 
railroad.  I  don't  need  much  in  the  way  of  grub  or  clothes, 
and  now  and  then  I  kin  pick  up  a  job.  Perhaps  you  dis- 
remember  that  row  I  had  down  in  the  engine-room,  when 
they  chucked  me  out  of  it  ?  " 

I  could  not  help  looking  at  him  with  astonishment ;  there 
was  evidently  only  a  pleasant  memory  in  his  mind.  Yet  I 
recalled  that  I  had  felt  indignant  for  him  and  his  daughter. 

"  Well,  that  derned  fool  of  a  Dutchman,  that  chief  engineer, 
gives  me  a  job  the  other  day.  And  ef  I  hadn't  just  forced 
my  way  down  there,  and  talked  sasy  at  him,  and  criticised 
his  macheen,  he?d  hev  never  knowed  I  knowed  a  eccentric 
from  a  waggon-wheel.  Do  you  see  the  pint  ?  " 

I  thought  I  began  to  see.  But  I  could  not  help  asking  what 
his  daughter  thought  of  his  travelling  in  this  inferior  way. 

He  laughed.  "  When  I  was  gettin'  up  some  pints  from 
them  books  of  travel  I  read  her  a  proverb  or  saying  outer 
one  o'  them,  that  '  only  princes  and  fools  and  Americans 
travelled  first  class.'  You  see  I  told  her  it  didn't  say 
'women,'  for  they  naterally  would  ride  first  class — and 
Amerikan  gals  being  princesses,  didn't  count.  Don't  you 
see?" 

VOL.  in.  y 


338  "  A  Tourist  from  Injianny. " 

If  I  did  not  quite  follow  his  logic,  nor  see  my  way  clearly 
into  his  daughter's  acquiescence  through  this  speech,  some 
light  may  be  thrown  upon  it  by  his  next  utterance.  I  had 
risen  with  some  vague  words  of  congratulation  on  his  suc- 
cess, and  was  about  to  leave  him,  when  he  called  me  back. 

"  Did  I  tell  ye,"  he  said,  cautiously  looking  around,  yet 
with  a  smile  of  stifled  enjoyment  in  his  face,  "did  I  tell  ye 
what  that  gal — my  darter — sed  to  me  ?  No,  I  didn't  tell 
ye — nor  no  one  else  afore.  Come  here  ! " 

He  made  me  draw  down  closely  into  the  shadow  and 
secrecy  of  the  round-house. 

"  That  night  that  I  told  my  gal  she  should  go  abroad,  I 
sez  to  her  quite  chipper  like  and  free,  f  I  say,  Looey,'  sez  I, 
'  ye'll  be  goin'  for  to  marry  some  o'  them  counts  or  dukes, 
or  poten-tates,  I  reckon,  and  ye'll  leave  the  old  man.'  And 
she  sez,  sez  she,  lookin'  me  squar  in  the  eye — did  ye  ever 
notiss  that  gal's  eye  ?  " 

"  She  has  fine  eyes,  "  I  replied,  cautiously. 

"  They  is  ez  clean  as  a  fresh  milk-pan  and  ez  bright. 
Nothin'  sticks  to  'em.  Eh  ?  " 

"  You  are  right." 

"  Well,  she  looks  up  at  me  this  way,"  here  he  achieved  a 
vile  imitation  of  his  daughter's  modest  glance,  not  at  all  like 
her,  "  and,  looking  at  me,  she  sez  quietly,  '  That's  what 
I'm  goin'  for,  and  to  improve  my  mind.'  He !  he  !  he ! 
It's  a  fack  !  To  marry  a  nobleman,  and  im-prove  her  mind ! 
Ha!  ha!  ha! 

The  evident  enjoyment  that  he  took  in  this,  and  the  quiet 
ignoring  of  anything  of  a  moral  quality  in  his  daughter's 
sentiments,  or  in  his  thus  confiding  them  to  a  stranger's  ear, 
again  upset  all  my  theories.  I  may  say  here  that  it  is  one 
of  the  evidences  of  original  character,  that  it  is  apt  to  baffle 
all  prognosis  from  a  mere  observer's  standpoint.  But  I 
recalled  it  some  months  after. 


* '  A  Tourist  from  Injianny. "  339 

We  parted  in  England.  It  is  not  necessary,  in  this  brief 
chronicle,  to  repeat  the  various  stories  of  "  Uncle  Joshua," 
as  the  younger  and  more  frivolous  of  our  passengers  called 
him,  nor  that  two-thirds  of  the  stories  repeated  were  utterly 
at  variance  with  my  estimate  of  the  character  of  the  man, 
although  I  may  add  that  I  was  also  doubtful  of  the  accuracy 
of  my  own  estimate.  But  one  quality  was  always  dominant 
— his  resistless,  dogged  pertinacity  and  calm  imperturba- 
bility !  "  He  asked  Miss  Montmorris  if  she  '  minded ' 
singin*  a  little  in  the  second  cabin  to  liven  it  up,  and  added, 
as  an  inducement,  that  they  didn't  know  good  music  from 
bad,"  said  Jack  Walker  to  me.  "And  when  he  mended 
the  broken  lock  of  my  trunk,  he  abtholutely  propothed  to 
me  to  athk  couthin  Grath  if  thee  didn't  want  a  '  koorier ' 
to  travel  with  her  to  *  do  mechanics,'  provided  thee  would 
take  charge  of  that  dreadfully  deaf-and-dumb  daughter  of 
his.  Wothn't  it  funny  ?  Really  he'th  one  of  your  char- 
acters," said  the  youngest  Miss  Montmorris  to  me  as  we 
made  our  adieu  on  the  steamer. 

I  am  afraid  he  was  not,  although  he  was  good  enough 
afterwards  to  establish  one  or  two  of  my  theories  regarding 
him.  I  was  enabled  to  assist  him  once  in  an  altercation  he 
had  with  a  cabman  regarding  the  fare  of  his  daughter,  the 
cabman  retaining  a  distinct  impression  that  the  father  had 
also  ridden  in  some  obscure  way  in  or  upon  the  same  cab 
— as  he  undoubtedly  had — and  I  grieve  to  say,  foolishly. 
I  heard  that  he  had  forced  his  way  into  a  certain  great 
house  in  England,  and  that  he  was  ignominiously  rejected, 
but  I  also  heard  that  ample  apologies  had  been  made  to 
a  certain  quiet  modest  daughter  of  his  who  was  without 
on  the  lawn,  and  that  also  a  certain  Personage,  whom  I 
approach,  even  in  this  vague  way,  with  a  capital  letter,  had 
graciously  taken  a  fancy  to  the  poor  child,  and  had  invited 
her  to  a  reception. 


340  "  A  Tourist  from  Injianny." 

But  this  is  only  hearsay  evidence.  So  also  is  the  story 
which  met  me  in  Paris,  that  he  had  been  up  with  his 
daughter  in  the  captive  balloon,  and  that  at  an  elevation  of 
several  thousand  feet*  from  the  earth  he  had  made  some 
remarks  upon  the  attaching  cable  and  the  drum  on  which 
the  cable  revolved,  which  not  only  excited  the  interest  of 
the  passengers,  but  attracted  the  attention  of  the  authorities, 
so  that  he  was  not  only  given  a  gratuitous  ascent  afterwards, 
but  was,  I  am  told,  offered  some  gratuity.  But  I  shall 
restrict  this  narrative  to  the  few  facts  of  which  I  was  person- 
ally cognisant  in  the  career  of  this  remarkable  man. 

I  was  at  a  certain  entertainment  given  in  Paris  by  the 
heirs,  executors,  and  assignees  of  an  admirable  man,  long 
since  gathered  to  his  fathers  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  but  whose 
Shakespeare-like  bust  still  looks  calmly  and  benevolently 
down  on  the  riotous  revelry  of  absurd  wickedness  of  which 
he  was,  when  living,  the  patron  saint.  The  entertainment 
was  of  such  a  character  that,  while  the  performers  were 
chiefly  women,  a  majority  of  the  spectators  were  men.  The 
few  exceptions  were  foreigners,  and  among  them  I  quickly 
recognised  my  fair  fellow-countrywomen,  the  Montmorrises. 
"  Don't  thay  that  you've  theen  us  here,"  said  the  youngest 
Miss  Montmorris,  "  for  ith  only  a  lark.  Ith  awfully  funny  ! 
And  that  friend  of  yourth  from  Injianny  ith  here  with  hith 
daughter."  It  did  not  take  me  long  to  find  my  friend 
Uncle  Joshua's  serious,  practical,  unsympathetic  face  in  the 
front  row  of  tables  and  benches.  But  beside  him,  to  my 
utter  consternation,  was  his  shy  and  modest  daughter.  In 
another  moment  I  was  at  his  side.  "  I  really  think — I  am 
afraid — "  I  began  in  a  whisper,  "that  you  have  made  a 
mistake.  I  don't  think  you  can  be  aware  of  the  character 

of  this  place.     Your  daughter  " 

.  "  Kem  here  with  Miss  Montmorris.     She's  yer.     It's  all 
right" 


"A  Tourist  from  Injianny"  341 

I  was  at  my  wits'  end.  Happily,  at  this  moment  Mdlle. 
Rochefort  from  the  Orangerie  skipped  out  in  the  quadrille 
immediately  before  us,  caught  her  light  skirts  in  either 
hand,  and  executed  &pas  that  lifted  the  hat  from  the  eyes 
of  some  of  the  front  spectators  and  pulled  it  down  over  the 
eyes  of  others.  The  Montmorrises  fluttered  away  with  a 
half-hysterical  giggle  and  a  half-confounded  escort.  The 
modest-looking  Miss  Loo,  who  had  been  staring  at  every- 
thing quite  indifferently,  suddenly  stepped  forward,  took  her 
father's  arm,  and  said  sharply,  "  Come." 

At  this  moment,  a  voice  in  English,  but  unmistakably 
belonging  to  the  politest  nation  in  the  world,  rose  from 
behind  the  girl,  mimickingly.  "  My  God !  it  is  schocking. 
I  bloosh  !  O  dammit !  " 

In  an  instant  he  was  in  the  hands  of  "  Uncle  Joshua," 
and  forced  back  clamouring  against  the  railing,  his  hat 
smashed  over  his  foolish  furious  face,  and  half  his  shirt  and 
cravat  in  the  old  man's  strong  grip.  Several  students  rushed 
to  the  rescue  of  their  compatriot,  but  one  or  two  Englishmen 
and  half  a  dozen  Americans  had  managed  in  some  mysteri- 
ous way  to  bound  into  the  arena.  I  looked  hurriedly  for 
Miss  Louisa,  but  she  was  gone.  When  we  had  extricated 
the  old  man  from  the  melee,  I  asked  him  where  she  was. 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  she's  gone  off  with  Sir  Arthur.  I  saw 
him  here  just  as  I  pitched  into  that  derned  fool." 

"Sir  Arthur?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  an  acquaintance  o'  Loo's." 

"  She's  in  my  carriage,  just  outside,"  interrupted  a  hand- 
some young  fellow,  with  the  shoulders  of  a  giant  and  the 
blushes  of  a  girl.  "  It's  all  over  now,  you  know.  It  was 
rather  a  foolish  lark,  you  coming  here  with  her  without 
knowing— you  know — anything  about  it,  you  know.  But 
this  way — thank  you.  She's  waiting  for  you,"  and  in 
another  instant  he  and  the  old  man  had  vanished. 


342  "  A  Tourist  from  Injianny" 

Nor  did  I  see  him  again  until  he  stepped  into  the  rail- 
way carriage  with  me  on  his  way  to  Liverpool.  "  You  see 
I'm  trav'lin  first  class  now,"  he  said,  "  but  goin'  home  I 
don't  mind  a  trifle  extry  expense."  "  Then  you've  made 
your  tour,"  I  asked,  "  and  are  successful  ?  "  "  Wall,  yes, 
we  saw  Switzerland  and  Italy,  and  if  I  hedn't  been  short  o' 
time,  we'd  hev  gone  to  Egypt.  Mebbee  next  winter  I'll 
run  over  again  to  see  Loo,  and  do  it."  "Then  your 
daughter  does*not  return  with  you  ? "  I  continued  in 
some  astonishment.  "  Wall,  no — she's  visiting  some  of  Sir 
Arthur's  relatives  in  Kent.  Sir  Arthur  is  there — perhaps 
you  recollect  him  ?  "  He  paused  a  moment,  looked  cauti- 
ously around,  and  with  the  same  enjoyment  he  had  shown 
on  shipboard,  said,  "  Do  you  remember  the  joke  I  told  you 
on  Loo,  when  she  was  at  sea  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  don't  ye  say  anything  about  it  now.  But  dem 
my  skin,  if  it  doesn't  look  like  coming  true." 

And  it  did. 


(     343     ) 


Cfje  jTooI  of  JTttie 


HE  lived  alone.  I  do  not  think  this  peculiarity  arose  from 
any  wish  to  withdraw  his  foolishness  from  the  rest  of  the 
camp,  nor  was  it  probable  that  the  combined  wisdom  of 
Five  Forks  ever  drove  him  into  exile.  My  impression  is, 
that  he  lived  alone  from  choice  —  a  choice  he  made  long 
before  the  camp  indulged  in  any  criticism  of  his  mental 
capacity.  He  was  much  given  to  moody  reticence,  and 
although  to  outward  appearances  a  strong  man,  was  always 
complaining  of  ill  health.  Indeed,  one  theory  of  his  isol- 
ation was  that  it  afforded  him  better  opportunities  for 
taking  medicine,  of  which  he  habitually  consumed  large 
quantities. 

His  folly  first  dawned  upon  Five  Forks  through  the  Post 
Office  windows.  He  was  for  a  long  time  the  only  man 
who  wrote  home  by  every  mail,  his  letters  being  always 
directed  to  the  same  person  —  a  woman.  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that  the  bulk  of  the  Five  Forks'  correspondence  was 
usually  the  other  way  ;  there  were  many  letters  received  — 
the  majority  being  in  the  female  hand  —  but  very  few 
answered. 

The  men  received  them  indifferently,  or  as  a  matter  of 
course  ;  a  few  opened  and  read  them  on  the  spot  with 
a  barely  repressed  smile  of  self-conceit,  or  quite  as  fre- 
quently glanced  over  them  with  undisguised  impatience. 
Some  of  the  letters  began  with  "  My  dear  husband,"  and 


344  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

some  were  never  called  for.  But  the  fact  that  the  only 
regular  correspondent  of  Five  Forks  never  received  any 
reply  became  at  last  quite  notorious.  Consequently,  when 
an  envelope  was  jeceived  bearing  the  stamp  of  the  "  Dead 
Letter  Office,"  addressed  to  the  Fool  under  the  more  con- 
ventional title  of  "Cyrus  Hawkins,"  there  was  quite  a 
fever  of  excitement.  I  do  not  know  how  the  secret  leaked 
out,  but  it  was  eventually  known  to  the  camp  that  the 
envelope  contained  Hawkins'  own  letters  returned.  This 
was  the  first  evidence  of  his  weakness ;  any  man  who  re- 
peatedly wrote  to  a  woman  who  did  not  reply  must  be  a 
fool.  I  think  Hawkins  suspected  that  his  folly  was  known 
to  the  camp,  but  he  took  refuge  in  symptoms  of  chills  and 
fever,  which  he  at  once  developed,  and  effected  a  diversion 
with  three  bottles  of  Indian  chologogue  and  two  boxes  of 
pills.  At  all  events,  at  the  end  of  a  week  he  resumed  a 
pen,  stiffened  by  tonics,  with  all  his  old  epistolatory  pertin- 
acity. This  time  the  letters  had  a  new  address. 

In  those  days  a  popular  belief  obtained  in  the  mines 
that  Luck  particularly  favoured  the  foolish  and  unscientific. 
Consequently,  when  Hawkins  struck  a  "pocket"  in  the 
hill-side  near  his  solitary  cabin,  there  was  but  little  surprise. 
"He  will  sink  it  all  in  the  next  hole,"  was  the  prevailing 
belief,  predicated  upon  the  usual  manner  in  which  the 
possessor  of  "  nigger  luck  "  disposed  of  his  fortune.  To 
everybody's  astonishment,  Hawkins,  after  taking  out  about 
eight  thousand  dollars  and  exhausting  the  pocket,  did  not 
prospect  for  another.  The  camp  then  waited  patiently  to 
see  what  he  would  do  with  his  money.  I  think,  however, 
that  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  their  indignation  was 
kept  from  taking  the  form  of  a  personal  assault,  when  it 
became  known  that  he  had  purchased  a  draft  for  eight 
thousand  dollars  in  favour  of  "that  woman."  More  than 
this,  it  was  finally  whispered  that  the  draft  was  returned  to 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  345 

him  as  his  letters  had  been,  and  that  he  was  ashamed  to 
reclaim  the  money  at  the  express  office.  "  It  wouldn't  be 
a  bad  specilation  to  go  East,  get  some  smart  gal  for  a 
hundred  dollars  to  dress  herself  up  and  represent  that  hag, 
and  jest  freeze  onto  that  eight  thousand,"  suggested  a  far- 
seeing  financier.  I  may  state  here  that  we  always  alluded 
to  Hawkins'  fair  unknown  as  "  The  Hag,"  without  having, 
I  am  confident,  the  least  justification  for  that  epithet. 

That  the  Fool  should  gamble  seemed  eminently  fit  and 
proper.  That  he  should  occasionally  win  a  large  stake, 
according  to  that  popular  theory  which  I  have  recorded  in 
the  preceding  paragraph,  appeared  also  a  not  improbable 
or  inconsistent  fact.  That  he  should,  however,  break  the 
faro  bank  which  Mr.  John  Hamlin  had  set  up  in  Five 
Forks,  and  carry  off  a  sum  variously  estimated  at  from  ten 
to  twenty  thousand  dollars,  and  not  return  the  next  day 
and  lose  the  money  at  the  same  table,  really  appeared  in- 
credible. Yet  such  was  the  fact.  A  day  or  two  passed 
without  any  known  investment  of  Mr.  Hawkins'  recently- 
acquired  capital.  "  Ef  he  allows  to  send  it  to  that  Hag," 
said  one  prominent  citizen,  "  suthin'  ought  to  be  done  !  It's 
jest  ruinin'  the  reputation  of  this  yer  camp — this  sloshin' 
around  o'  capital  on  non-residents  ez  don't  claim  it ! "  "  It's 
settin'  an  example  o'  extravagance,"  said  another,  "ez  is 
little  better  nor  a  swindle.  Thars  mor'n  five  men  in  this 
camp  thet,  hearin'  thet  Hawkins  had  sent  home  eight 
thousand  dollars,  must  jest  rise  up  and  send  home  their 
hard  earnings,  too !  And  then  to  think  thet  that  eight 
thousand  was  only  a  bluff,  after  all,  and  thet  it's  lyin'  there 
on  call  in  Adams  &  Co.'s  bank  !  ^  Well !  I  say  it's  one  o* 
them  things  a  vigilance  committee  oughter  look  into  !" 

When  there  seemed  no  possibility  of  this  repetition  of 
Hawkins'  folly,  the  anxiety  to  know  what  he  had  really 
done  with  his  money  became  intense.  At  last  a  self-ap- 


346  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks, 

pointed  committee  of  four  citizens  dropped  artfully,  but  to 
outward  appearances  carelessly,  upon  him  in  his  seclusion. 
When  some  polite  formalities  had  been  exchanged,  and 
some  easy  vituperation  of  a  backward  season  offered  by 
each  of  the  parties,  Tom  Wingate  approached  the  subject — 

"  Sorter  dropped  heavy  on  Jack  Hamlin  the  other  night, 
didn't  ye?  He  allows  you  didn't  give  him  no  show  for 
revenge.  I  said  you  wasn't  no  such  d — d  fool — didn't  I, 
Dick  ? "  continued  the  artful  Wingate,  appealing  to  a  con- 
federate. 

"Yes,"  said  Dick  promptly.  "You  said  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  wasn't  goin'  to  be  thrown  around  recklessly. 
You  said  Cyrus  had  suthin'  better  to  do  with  his  capital," 
superadded  Dick,  with  gratuitous  mendacity.  "I  disre- 
member  now  what  partickler  investment  you  said  he  was 
goin'  to  make  with  it,"  he  continued,  appealing  with  easy 
indifference  to  his  friend. 

Of  course  Wingate  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  the 
Fool,  who  with  a  troubled  face,  was  rubbing  his  legs  softly. 
After  a  pause  he  turned  deprecatingly  toward  his  visitors. 

"Ye  didn't  enny  of  ye  ever  hev  a  sort  of  tremblin'  in 
your  legs — a  kind  o'  shakiness  from  the  knee  down? 
Suthin',"  he  continued,  slightly  brightening  with  his  topic, 
"suthin'  that  begins  like  chills,  and  yet  ain't  chills.  A 
kind  o'  sensation  of  goneness  here,  and  a  kind  o'  feelin'  as 
if  you  might  die  suddent !  When  Wright's  Pills  don't 
somehow  reach  the  spot,  and  Quinine  don't  fetch  you  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  said  Wingate,  with  a  curt  directness,  and  the 
air  of  authoritatively  responding  for  his  friends.  "No, 
never  had.  You  was  speakin'  of  this  yer  investment." 

"And  your  bowels  all  the  time  irregular ! "  continued 
Hawkins,  blushing  under  Wingate's  eye,  and  yet  clinging 
despairingly  to  his  theme  like  a  shipwrecked  mariner  to  his 
plank. 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  347 

Wingate  did  not  reply,  but  glanced  significantly  at  the 
rest.  Hawkins  evidently  saw  this  recognition  of  his  mental 
deficiency,  and  said  apologetically,  "  You  was  saying  suthin' 
about  my  investment  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wingate,  so  rapidly  as  to  almost  take  Haw- 
kins'  breath  away — "  the  investment  you  made  in  " 

"  Rafferty's  Ditch,"  said  the  Fool,  timidly. 

For  a  moment  the  visitors  could  only  stare  blankly  at 
each  other.  "  Rafferty's  Ditch,"  the  one  notorious  failure 
of  Five  Forks  !  Rafferty's  Ditch,  the  impracticable  scheme 
of  an  utterly  unpractical  man  ;  Rafferty's  Ditch,  a  ridiculous 
plan  for  taking  water  that  could  not  be  got  to  a  place  where 
it  wasn't  wanted !  Rafferty's  Ditch,  that  had  buried  the 
fortunes  of  Rafferty  and  twenty  wretched  stockholders  in  its 
muddy  depths ! 

"And  thet's  it— is  it?"  said  Wingate,  after  a  gloomy 
pause.  "  Thet's  it !  I  see  it  all  now,  boys.  That's  how 
ragged  Pat  Rafferty  went  down  to  San  Francisco  yesterday 
in  store  clothes,  and  his  wife  and  four  children  went  off  in 
a  kerridge  to  Sacramento.  Thet's  why  them  ten  workmen 
of  his,  ez  hedn't  a  cent  to  bless  themselves  with,  was  playin' 
billiards  last  night  and  eatin'  isters.  Thet's  whar  that 
money  kum  frum — one  hundred  dollars — to  pay  for  thet 
long  advertisement  of  the  new  issue  of  Ditch  stock  in  the 
Times  yesterday.  Thet's  why  them  six  strangers  were  booked 
at  the  Magnolia  Hotel  yesterday.  Don't  you  see — it's  thet 
money  and  thet  Fool ! " 

The  Fool  sat  silent.     The  visitors  rose  without  a  word. 

"You  never  took  any  of  them  Indian  Vegetable  Pills?" 
asked  Hawkins  timidly,  of  Wingate. 

"  No,"  roared  Wingate,  as  he  opened  the  door. 

"  They  tell  me  that  took  with  the  Panacea — they  was  out 
o'  the  Panacea  when  I  went  to  the  drug  store  last  week — 
they  say  that,  took  with  the  Panacea,  they  always  effect  a 


348  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

certing  cure." — But  by  this  time  Wingate  and  his  disgusted 
friends  had  retreated,  slamming  the  door  on  the  Fool  and 
his  ailments. 

Nevertheless  in  six  months  the  whole  affair  was  forgotten, 
the  money  had  been  spent — the  "  Ditch "  had  been 
purchased  by  a  company  of  Boston  capitalists,  fired  by  the 
glowing  description  of  an  Eastern  tourist,  who  had  spent 
one  drunken  night  at  Five  Forks — and  I  think  even  the 
mental  condition  of  Hawkins  might  have  remained  undis- 
turbed by  criticism,  but  for  a  singular  incident. 

It  was  during  an  exciting  political  campaign,  when  party 
feeling  ran  high,  that  the  irascible  Captain  McFadden,  of 
Sacramento,  visited  Five  Forks.  During  a  heated  discussion 
in  the  Prairie  Rose  Saloon  words  passed  between  the  Cap- 
tain and  the  Honourable  Calhoun  Bungstarter,  ending  in  a 
challenge.  The  Captain  bore  the  infelix  reputation  of  being 
a  notorious  duellist  and  a  dead  shot :  the  Captain  was  un- 
popular ;  the  Captain  was  believed  to  have  been  sent  by  the 
opposition  for  a  deadly  purpose,  and  the  Captain  was,  more- 
over, a  stranger.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  with  Five  Forks 
this  latter  condition  did  not  carry  the  quality  of  sanctity  or 
reverence  that  usually  obtains  among  other  nomads.  There 
was  consequently  some  little  hesitation  when  the  Captain 
turned  upon  the  crowd  and  asked  for  some  one  to  act  as 
his  friend.  To  everybody's  astonishment,  and  to  the  indig- 
nation of  many,  the  Fool  stepped  forward  and  offered  himself 
in  that  capacity.  I  do  not  know  whether  Captain  McFadden 
would  have  chosen  him  voluntarily,  but  he  was  constrained, 
in  the  absence  of  a  better  man,  to  accept  his  services. 

The  duel  never  took  place !  The  preliminaries  were  all 
arranged,  the  spot  indicated,  the  men  were  present  with 
their  seconds,  there  was  no  interruption  from  without,  there 
was  no  explanation  or  apology  passed — but  the  duel  did  not 
take  place.  It  may  be  readily  imagined  that  these  facts, 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  349 

which  were  all  known  to  Five  Forks,  threw  the  whole  com- 
munity into  a  fever  of  curiosity.  The  principals,  the  surgeon, 
and  one  second  left  town  the  next  day.  Only  the  Fool 
remained.  He  resisted  all  questioning — declaring  himself 
held  in  honour  not  to  divulge — in  short,  conducted  himself 
with  consistent  but  exasperating  folly.  It  was  not  until  six 
months  had  passed  that  Colonel  Starbottle,  the  second  of 
Calhoun  Bungstarter,  in  a  moment  of  weakness  superinduced 
by  the  social  glass,  condescended  to  explain.  I  should  not 
do  justice  to  the  parties  if  I  did  not  give  that  explanation 
in  the  Colonel's  own  words.  I  may  remark,  in  passing,  that 
the  characteristic  dignity  of  Colonel  Starbottle  always  be- 
came intensified  by  stimulants,  and  that  by  the  same  process 
all  sense  of  humour  was  utterly  eliminated. 

"With  the  understanding  that  I  am  addressing  myself 
confidentially  to  men  of  honour,"  said  the  Colonel,  elevating 
his  chest  above  the  bar-room  counter  of  the  Prairie  Rose 
Saloon,  "I  trust  that  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  pro- 
tect myself  from  levity,  as  I  was  forced  to  do  in  Sacramento 
on  the  only  other  occasion  when  I  entered  into  an  explana- 
tion of  this  delicate  affair  by — er — er — calling  the  individual 
to  a  personal  account — er  !  I  do  not  believe,"  added  the 
Colonel,  slightly  waving  his  glass  of  liquor  in  the  air  with  a 
graceful  gesture  of  courteous  deprecation — "knowing  what  I 
do  of  the  present  company — that  such  a  course  of  action  is 
required  here.  Certainly  not — Sir — in  the  home  of  Mr. 
Hawkins — er — the  gentleman  who  represented  Mr.  Bung- 
starter,  whose  conduct,  ged,  Sir,  is  worthy  of  praise,  blank 
me!" 

Apparently  satisfied  with  the  gravity  and  respectful  atten- 
tion of  his  listeners,  Colonel  Starbottle  smiled  relentingly 
and  sweetly,  closed  his  eyes  half  dreamily,  as  if  to  recall  his 
wandering  thoughts,  and  began — 

**  As  the  spot  selected  was  nearest  the  tenement  of  Mr. 


350  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

Hawkins,  it  was  agreed  that  the  parties  should  meet  there. 
They  did  so  promptly  at  half- past  six.  The  morning  being 
chilly,  Mr.  Hawkins  extended  the  hospitalities  of  his  house 
with  a  bottle  of  Bourbon  whisky — of  which  all  partook  but 
myself.  The  reason  for  that  exception  is,  I  believe,  well 
known.  It  is  my  invariable  custom  to  take  brandy — a  wine- 
glassful  in  a  cup  of  strong  coffee,  immediately  on  rising. 
It  stimulates  the  functions,  sir,  without  producing  any  blank 
derangement  of  the  nerves." 

The  barkeeper,  to  whom,  as  an  expert,  the  Colonel  had 
graciously  imparted  this  information,  nodded  approvingly, 
and  the  Colonel,  amid  a  breathless  silence,  went  on — 

"We  were  about  twenty  minutes  in  reaching  the  spot. 
The  ground  was  measured,  the  weapons  were  loaded,  when 
Mr.  Bungstarter  confided  to  me  the  information  that  he 
was  unwell  and  in  great  pain  /  On  consultation  with  Mr. 
Hawkins,  it  appeared  that  his  principal  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
field  was  also  suffering  and  in  great  pain.  The  symptoms 
were  such  as  a  medical  man  would  pronounce  *  choleraic.' 
I  say  would  have  pronounced,  for  on  examination  the 
surgeon  was  also  found  to  be — er — in  pain,  and  I  regret  to 
say,  expressing  himself  in  language  unbecoming  the  occasion. 
His  impression  was  that  some  powerful  drug  had  been  ad- 
ministered. On  referring  the  question  to  Mr.  Hawkins,  he 
remembered  that  the  bottle  of  whisky  partaken  by  them 
contained  a  medicine  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
taking,  but  which,  having  failed  to  act  upon  him,  he  had 
concluded  to  be  generally  ineffective,  and  had  forgotten. 
His  perfect  willingness  to  hold  himself  personally  responsible 
to  each  of  the  parties,  his  genuine  concern  at  the  disastrous 
effect  of  the  mistake,  mingled  with  his  own  alarm  at  the  state 
of  his  system,  which — er — failed  to — er — respond  to  the 
peculiar  qualities  of  the  medicine,  was  most  becoming  to 
him  as  a  man  of  honour  and  a  gentleman  !  After  an  hour's 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  351 

delay,  both  principals  being  completely  exhausted,  and 
abandoned  by  the  surgeon,  who  was  unreasonably  alarmed 
at  his  own  condition,  Mr.  Hawkins  and  I  agreed  to  remove 
our  men  to  Markleville.  There,  after  a  further  consultation 
with  Mr.  Hawkins,  an  amicable  adjustment  of  all  difficulties, 
honourable  to  both  parties,  and  governed  by  profound 
secrecy,  was  arranged.  I  believe,"  added  the  Colonel,  look- 
ing around  and  setting  down  his  glass,  "no  gentleman  has 
yet  expressed  himself  other  than  satisfied  with  the  result." 

Perhaps  it  was  the  Colonel's  manner,  but  whatever  was 
the  opinion  of  Five  Forks  regarding  the  intellectual  display 
of  Mr.  Hawkins  in  this  affair,  there  was  very  little  outspoken 
criticism  at  the  moment.  In  a  few  weeks  the  whole  thing 
was  forgotten,  except  as  part  of  the  necessary  record  of 
Hawkins'  blunders,  which  was  already  a  pretty  full  one 
Again  some  later  follies  conspired  to  obliterate  the  past, 
until,  a  year  later,  a  valuable  lead  was  discovered  in  the 
"  Blazing  Star"  Tunnel,  in  the  hill  where  he  lived,  and  a 
large  sum  was  offered  him  for  a  portion  of  his  land  on  the 
hill-top.  Accustomed  as  Five  Forks  had  become  to  the 
exhibition  of  his  folly,  it  was  with  astonishment  that  they 
learned  that  he  resolutely  and  decidedly  refused  the  offer 
The  reason  that  he  gave  was  still  more  astounding.  He 
was  about  to  build  ! 

To  build  a  house  upon  property  available  for  mining 
purposes  was  preposterous ;  to  build  at  all  with  a  roof 
already  covering  him,  was  an  act  of  extravagance ;  to  build 
a  house  of  the  style  he  proposed  was  simply  madness ! 

Yet  here  were  facts.  The  plans  were  made  and  the 
lumber  for  the  new  building  was  already  on  the  ground, 
while  the  shaft  of  the  "Blazing  Star"  was  being  sunk 
below.  The  site  was,  in  reality,  a  very  picturesque  one — 
the  building  itself  of  a  style  and  quality  hitherto  unknown 
in  Five  Forks.  The  citizens,  at  first  sceptical,  during  their 


352  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

moments  of  recreation  and  idleness  gathered  dpuhtingly 
about  the  locality.  Day  by  day,  in  that  climate  of  rapid 
growths,  the  building,  pleasantly  known  in  the  slang  of 
Five  Forks  as  "  the  Idiot  Asylum,"  rose  beside  the  green 
oaks  and  clustering  firs  of  Hawkins  Hill,  as  if  it  were  part 
of  the  natural  phenomena.  At  last  it  was  completed. 
Then  Mr.  Hawkins  proceeded  to  furnish  it  with  an  expen- 
siveness  and  extravagance  of  outlay  quite  in  keeping  with 
his  former  idiocy.  Carpets,  sofas,  mirrors,  and  finally  a 
piano — the  only  one  known  in  the  county,  and  brought  at 
great  expense  from  Sacramento — kept  curiosity  at  a  fever 
heat.  More  than  that,  there  were  articles  and  ornaments 
which  a  few  married  experts  declared  only  fit  for  women. 
When  the  furnishing  of  the  house  was  complete — it  had 
occupied  two  months  of  the  speculative  and  curious  atten- 
tion of  the  camp — Mr.  Hawkins  locked  the  front  door,  put 
the  key  in  his  pocket,  and  quietly  retired  to  his  more 
humble  roof,  lower  on  the  hill  side  ! 

I  have  not  deemed  it  necessary  to  indicate  to  the  intelli- 
gent reader  all  of  the  theories  which  obtained  in  Five  Forks 
during  the  erection  of  the  building.  Some  of  them  may  be 
readily  imagined.  That  "  the  Hag  "  had  by  artful  coyness 
and  systematic  reticence  at  last  completely  subjugated  the 
Fool,  and  that  the  new  house  was  intended  for  the  nuptial 
bower  of  the  (predestined)  unhappy  pair,  was  of  course  the 
prevailing  opinion.  But  when,  after  a  reasonable  time  had 
elapsed,  and  the  house  still  remained  untenanted,  the  more 
exasperating  conviction  forced  itself  upon  the  general  mind 
that  the  Fool  had  been  for  the  third  time  imposed  upon. 
When  two  months  had  elapsed  and  there  seemed  no 
prospect  of  a  mistress  for  the  new  house,  I  think  public 
indignation  became  so  strong  that  had  "the  Hag"  arrived, 
the  marriage  would  have  been  publicly  prevented.  But  no 
one  appeared  that  seemed  to  answer  to  this  idea  of  an 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  353 

available  tenant,  and  all  inquiry  of  Mr.  Hawkins  as  to  his 
intention  in  building  a  house  and  not  renting  it  or  occupy- 
ing it,  failed  to  elicit  any  further  information.  The  reasons 
that  he  gave  were  felt  to  be  vague,  evasive,  and  unsatis- 
factory. He  was  in  no  hurry  to  move,  he  said ;  when  he 
was  ready,  it  surely  was  not  strange  that  he  should  like 
to  have  his  house  all  ready  to  receive  him.  He  was 
often  seen  upon  the  veranda  of  a  summer  evening  smoking 
a  cigar.  It  is  reported  that  one  night  the  house  was 
observed  to  be  brilliantly  lighted  from  garret  to  basement ; 
that  a  neighbour,  observing  this,  crept  toward  the  open 
parlour  window,  and,  looking  in,  espied  the  Fool  accurately 
dressed  in  evening  costume,  lounging  upon  a  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room,  with  the  easy  air  of  socially  entertaining  a 
large  party.  Notwithstanding  this,  the  house  was  unmis- 
takably vacant  that  evening,  save  for  the  presence  of  the 
owner,  as  the  witnesses  afterward  testified.  When  this 
story  was  first  related,  a  few  practical  men  suggested  the 
theory  that  Mr.  Hawkins  was  simply  drilling  himself  in  the 
elaborate  duties  of  hospitality  against  a  probable  event  in 
his  history.  A  few  ventured  the  belief  that  the  house 
was  haunted.  The  imaginative  editor  of  the  Five  Forks 
"  Record  "  evolved  from  the  depths  of  his  professional  con- 
sciousness a  story  that  Hawkins'  sweetheart  had  died,  and 
that  he  regularly  entertained  her  spirit  in  this  beautifully- 
furnished  mausoleum.  The  occasional  spectacle  of  Hawkins' 
tall  figure  pacing  the  veranda  on  moonlight  nights  lent  some 
credence  to  this  theory,  until  an  unlooked-for  incident 
diverted  all  speculation  into  another  channel. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  a  certain  wild,  rude  valley, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Five  Forks,  had  become  famous 
as  a  picturesque  resort.  Travellers  had  visited  it,  and 
declared  that  there  were  more  cubic  yards  of  rough  stone 
cliff  and  a  waterfall  of  greater  height,  than  any  they  had 

VOL.    III.  Z 


354  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

visited.  Correspondents  had  written  it  up  with  extrava- 
gant rhetoric  and  inordinate  poetical  quotation.  Men  and 
women  who  had  never  enjoyed  a  sunset,  a  tree,  or  a  flower 
— who  had  never  appreciated  the  graciousness  or  meaning 
of  the  yellow  sunlight  that  flecked  their  homely  doorways, 
or  the  tenderness  of  a  midsummer's  night,  to  whose  moon- 
light they  bared  their  shirt-sleeves  or  their  tulle  dresses — 
came  from  thousands  of  miles  away  to  calculate  the  height 
of  this  rock,  to  observe  the  depth  of  this  chasm,  to  remark 
upon  the  enormous  size  of  this  unsightly  tree,  and  to 
believe  with  ineffable  self-complacency  that  they  really 
admired  nature.  And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  tastes  or  weaknesses  of  the  individual,  the 
more  prominent  and  salient  points  of  the  valley  were 
christened,  and  there  was  a  "Lace  Handkerchief  Fall," 
and  the  "Tears  of  Sympathy  Cataract,"  and  one  distin- 
guished orator's  "Peak,"  and  several  "Mounts"  of  various 
noted  people,  living  or  dead ;  and  an  "  Exclamation  Point," 
and  a  "Valley  of  Silent  Adoration."  And,  in  course  of 
time,  empty  soda-water  bottles  were  found  at  the  base  of 
the  cataract,  and  greasy  newspapers  and  fragments  of  ham 
sandwiches  lay  at  the  dusty  roots  of  giant  trees.  With  this, 
there  were  frequent  irruptions  of  closely-shaven  and  tightly- 
cravated  men  and  delicate-faced  women  in  the  one  long 
street  of  Five  Forks,  and  a  scampering  of  mules,  and  an 
occasional  procession  of  dusty  brown-linen  cavalry. 
,  A  year  after  "Hawkins'  Idiot  Asylum"  was  completed, 
one  day  there  drifted  into  the  valley  a  riotous  cavalcade 
of  "  school-marms,"  teachers  of  the  San  Francisco  public 
schools,  out  for  a  holiday.  Not  severely-spectacled  Miner- 
vas  and  chastely  armed  and  mailed  Pallases,  but,  I  fear 
for  the  security  of  Five  Forks,  very  human,  charming,  and 
mischievous  young  women.  At  least,  so  the  men  thought, 
working  in  the  ditches  and  tunnelling  on  the  hill-side ;  and 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  355 

when,  in  the  interests  of  Science  and  the  mental  advance- 
ment of  Juvenile  Posterity,  it  was  finally  settled  that  they 
should  stay  in  Five  Forks  two  or  three  days  for  the  sake 
of  visiting  the  various  mines,  and  particularly  the  "Blazing 
Star  "  Tunnel,  there  was  some  flutter  of  masculine  anxiety. 
There  was  a  considerable  inquiry  for  "store  clothes,"  a 
hopeless  overhauling  of  old  and  disused  raiment,  and  a 
general  demand  for  "  boiled  shirts  "  and  the  barber. 

Meanwhile,  with  that  supreme  audacity  and  impudent 
hardihood  of  the  sex  when  gregarious,  the  school-marms 
rode  through  the  town,  admiring  openly  the  handsome 
faces  and  manly  figures  that  looked  up  from  the  ditches  or 
rose  behind  the  cars  of  ore  at  the  mouths  of  tunnels. 

• 

Indeed,  it  is  alleged  that  Jenny  Forester,  backed  and 
supported  by  seven  other  equally  shameless  young  women, 
had  openly  and  publicly  waved  her  handkerchief  to  the 
florid  Hercules  of  Five  Forks — one  Tom  Flynn,  formerly 
of  Virginia — leaving  that  good-natured  but  not  over-bright 
giant  pulling  his  blonde  moustaches  in  bashful  amazement. 

It  was  a  pleasant  June  afternoon  that  Miss  Nelly  Arnot, 
Principal  of  the  primary  department  of  one  of  the  public 
schools  of  San  Francisco,  having  evaded  her  companions, 
resolved  to  put  into  operation  a  plan  which  had  lately 
sprung  up  in  her  courageous  and  mischief-loving  fancy. 
With  that  wonderful  and  mysterious  instinct  of  her  sex, 
from  whom  no  secrets  of  the  affections  are  hid  and  to 
whom  all  hearts  are  laid  open,  she  had  heard  the  story  of 
Hawkins'  folly  and  the  existence  of  the  "  Idiot  Asylum." 
Alone,  on  Hawkins'  Hill,  she  had  determined  to  penetrate 
its  seclusion.  Skirting  the  underbush  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill,  she  managed  to  keep  the  heaviest  timber  between 
herself  and  the  "Blazing  Star"  Tunnel  at  its  base,  as  well 
as  the  cabin  of  Hawkins,  half-way  up  the  ascent,  until,  by 
a  circuitous  route,  at  last  she  reached,  unobserved,  the 


356  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

summit.  Before  her  rose,  silent,  darkened,  and  motion- 
less, the  object  of  her  search.  Here  her  courage  failed 
her,  with  all  the  characteristic  inconsequence  of  her  sex. 
A  sudden  fear  of  all  the  dangers  she  had  safely  passed 
— bears,  tarantulas,  drunken  men,  and  lizards — came  upon 
her.  For  a  moment,  as  she  afterwards  expressed  it,  "  She 
thought  she  should  die."  With  this  belief,  probably,  she 
gathered  three  large  stones,  which  she  could  hardly  lift,  for 
the  purpose  of  throwing  a  great  distance ;  put  two  hair- 
pins in  her  mouth,  and  carefully  readjusted  with  both 
hands  two  stray  braids  of  her  lovely  blue-black  mane 
which  had  fallen  in  gathering  the  stones.  Then  she  felt 
in  the  pockets  of  her  linen  duster  for  her  ^ard-case,  hand- 
kerchief, pocket-book,  and  smelling-bottle,  and  finding 
them  intact,  suddenly  assumed  an  air  of  easy,  ladylike 
unconcern,  went  up  the  steps  of  the  veranda,  and 
demurely  pulled  the  front  door-bell,  which  she  knew 
would  not  be  answered.  After  a  decent  pause,  she 
walked  around  the  encompassing  veranda,  examining  the 
closed  shutters  of  the  French  windows  until  she  found 
one  that  yielded  to  her  touch.  Here  she  paused  again 
to  adjust  her  coquettish  hat  by  the  mirror-like  surface 
of  the  long  sash  window  that  reflected  the  full  length 
of  her  pretty  figure.  And  then  she  opened  the  window 
and  entered  the  room. 

Although  long  closed,  the  house  had  a  smell  of  newness 
and  of  fresh  paint  that  was  quite  unlike  the  mouldiness  of 
the  conventional  haunted  house.  The  bright  carpets,  the 
cheerful  walls,  the  glistening  oil-cloths  were  quite  incon- 
sistent with  the  idea  of  a  ghost.  With  childish  curiosity 
she  began  to  explore  the  silent  house,  at  first  timidly — 
opening  the  doors  with  a  violent  push,  and  then  stepping 
back  from  the  threshold  to  make  good  a  possible  retreat ; 
and  then  more  boldly,  as  she  became  convinced  of  her 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  357 

security  and  absolute  loneliness.  In  one  of  the  chambers, 
the  largest,  there  were  fresh  flowers  in  a  vase — evidently 
gathered  that  morning;  and  what  seemed  still  more  re- 
markable, the  pitchers  and  ewers  were  freshly  filled  with 
water.  This  obliged  Miss  Nelly  to  notice  another  singular 
fact,  namely,  that  the  house  was  free  from  dust — the  one 
most  obtrusive  and  penetrating  visitor  of  Five  Forks.  The 
floors  and  carpets  had  been  recently  swept,  the  chairs  and 
furniture  carefully  wiped  and  dusted.  If  the  house  was 
haunted,  it  was  possessed  by  a  spirit  who  had  none  of  the 
usual  indifference  to  decay  and  mould.  And  yet  the  beds 
had  evidently  never  been  slept  in,  the  very  springs  of  the 
chair  in  which  she  sat  creaked  stiffly  at  the  novelty,  the 
closet  doors  opened  with  the  reluctance  of  fresh  paint  and 
varnish,  and  in  spite  of  the  warmth,  cleanliness,  and  cheer- 
fulness of  furniture  and  decoration,  there  was  none  of  the 
ease  of  tenancy  and  occupation.  As  Miss  Nelly  afterwards 
confessed,  she  longed  to  "tumble  things  around,"  and 
when  she  reached  the  parlour  or  drawing-room  again,  she 
could  hardly  resist  the  desire.  Particularly  was  she  tempted 
by  a  closed  piano,  that  stood  mutely  against  the  wall  She 
thought  she  would  open  it  just  to  see  who  was  the  maker. 
That  done,  it  would  be  no  harm  to  try  its  tone.  She  did 
so,  with  one  little  foot  on  the  soft  pedal.  But  Miss  Nelly 
was  too  good  a  player,  and  too  enthusiastic  a  musician,  to 
stop  at  half  measures.  She  tried  it  again — this  time  so  sin- 
cerely that  the  whole  house  seemed  to  spring  into  voice. 
Then  she  stopped  and  listened.  There  was  no  response — 
the  empty  rooms  seemed  to  have  relapsed  into  their  old 
stillness.  She  stepped  out  on  the  veranda — a  woodpecker 
recommenced  his  tapping  on  an  adjacent  tree,  the  rattle  of 
a  cart  in  the  rocky  gulch  below  the  hill  came  faintly  up. 
No  one  was  to  be  seen  far  or  near.  Miss  Nelly,  reassured, 
returned.  She  again  ran  her  fingers  over  the  keys — stopped, 


35$  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

caught  at  a  melody  running  in  her  mind,  half  played  it,  and 
then  threw  away  all  caution.  Before  five  minutes  had 
elapsed  she  had  entirely  forgotten  herself,  and  with  her 
linen  duster  thrown  aside,  her  straw  hat  flung  on  the  piano, 
her  white  hands  bared,  and  a  black  loop  of  her  braided  hair 
hanging  upon  her  shoulder,  was  fairly  embarked  upon  a 
flowing  sea  of  musical  recollection. 

She  had  played  perhaps  half-an-hour,  when,  having  just 
finished  an  elaborate  symphony  and  resting  her  hands  on 
the  keys,  she  heard  very  distinctly  and  unmistakably  the 
sound  of  applause  from  without.  In  an  instant  the  fires  of 
shame  and  indignation  leaped  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  rose 
from  the  instrument  and  ran  to  the  window,  only  in  time  to 
catch  sight  of  a  dozen  figures  in  blue  and  red  flannel  shirts 
vanishing  hurriedly  through  the  trees  below. 

Miss  Nelly's  mind  was  instantly  made  up.  I  think  I 
have  already  intimated  that  under  the  stimulus  of  excite- 
ment she  was  not  wanting  in  courage,  and  as  she  quietly 
resumed  her  gloves,  hat,  and  duster,  she  was  not  perhaps 
exactly  the  young  person  that  it  would  be  entirely  safe  for 
the  timid,  embarrassed,  or  inexperienced  of  my  sex  to  meet 
alone.  She  shut  down  the  piano,  and  having  carefully 
reclosed  all  the  windows  and  doors,  and  restored  the  house 
to  its  former  desolate  condition,  she  stepped  from  the 
veranda,  and  proceeded  directly  to  the  cabin  of  the  unin- 
tellectual  Hawkins,  that  reared  its  adobe  chimney  above 
the  umbrage  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below. 

The  door  opened  instantly  to  her  impulsive  knock,  and 
the  Fool  of  Five  Forks  stood  before  her.  Miss  Nelly  had 
never  before  seen  the  man  designated  by  this  infelicitous 
title,  and  as  he  stepped  backward  in  half  courtesy  and  half 
astonishment  she  was  for  the  moment  disconcerted.  He 
was  tall,  finely  formed,  and  dark-bearded.  Above  cheeks  a 
little  hollowed  by  care  and  ill-health  shone  a  pair  of  hazel 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  359 

eyes,  very  large,  very  gentle,  but  inexpressibly  sad  and 
mournful.  This  was  certainly  not  the  kind  of  man  Miss 
Nelly  had  expected  to  see,  yet  after  her  first  embarrassment 
had  passed,  the  very  circumstance,  oddly  enough,  added 
to  her  indignation,  and  stung  her  wounded  pride  still  more 
deeply.  Nevertheless,  the  arch  hypocrite  instantly  changed 
her  tactics  with  the  swift  intuition  of  her  sex. 

"  I  have  come,"  she  said  with  a  dazzling  smile,  infinitely 
more  dangerous  than  her  former  dignified  severity,  "I 
have  come  to  ask  your  pardon  for  a  great  liberty  I  have 
just  taken.  I  believe  the  new  house  above  us  on  the  hill 
is  yours*.  I  was  so  much  pleased  with  its  exterior  that  I 
left  my  friends  for  a  moment  below  here,"  she  continued 
artfully,  with  a  slight  wave  of  the  hand,  as  if  indicating  a 
band  of  fearless  Amazons  without,  and  waiting  to  avenge 
any  possible  insult  offered  to  one  of  their  number,  "  and 
ventured  to  enter  it  Finding  it  unoccupied,  as  I  had  been 
told,  I  am  afraid  I  had  the  audacity  to  sit  down  and  amuse 
myself  for  a  few  moments  at  the  piano — while  waiting  for 
my  friends." 

Hawkins  raised  his  beautiful  eyes  to  hers.  He  saw  a 
very  pretty  girl,  with  frank  gray  eyes  glistening  with  excite- 
ment, with  two  red,  slightly  freckled  cheeks,  glowing  a 
little  under  his  eyes,  with  a  short  scarlet  upper  lip  turned 
back,  like  a  rose  leaf,  over  a  little  line  of  white  teeth,  as  she 
breathed  somewhat  hurriedly  in  her  nervous  excitement. 
He  saw  all  this  calmly,  quietly,  and,  save  for  the  natural 
uneasiness  of  a  shy,  reticent  man,  I  fear  without  a  quicken- 
ing of  his  pulse. 

"  I  knowed  it,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  heerd  ye  as  I  kem 
up." 

Miss  Nelly  was  furious  at  his  grammar,  his  dialect,  his 
coolness,  and  still  more  at  the  suspicion  that  he  was  an 
active  member  of  her  invisible  claque. 


360  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  still  smiling,  "then  I  think  I  heard 
you" 

"  I  reckon  not,"  he  interrupted  gravely.  "  I  didn't  stay 
long.  I  found  the  boys  hanging  round  the  house,  and  I 
allowed  at  first  I'd  go  in  and  kinder  warn  you,  but  they 
promised  to  keep  still,  and  you  looked  so  comfortable  and 
wrapped  up  in  your  music,  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  dis- 
turb you,  and  kem  away.  I  hope,"  he  added  earnestly, 
"  they  didn't  let  on  ez  they  heerd  you.  They  ain't  a  bad 
lot — them  Blazin'  Star  boys — though  they're  a  little  hard 
at  times.  But  they'd  no  more  hurt  ye  then  they  would  a 
— a — a  cat ! "  continued  Mr.  Hawkins,  blushing  with  a 
faint  apprehension  of  the  inelegance  of  his  simile. 

"  No  !  no ! "  said  Miss  Nelly,  feeling  suddenly  very 
angry  with  herself,  the  Fool,  and  the  entire  male  population 
of  Five  Forks.  "  No  !  I  have  behaved  foolishly,  I  suppose 
— and  if  they  had  it  would  have  served  me  right.  But  I 
only  wanted  to  apologise  to  you.  You'll  find  everything  as 
you  left  it.  Good  day  ! " 

She  turned  to  go.  Mr.  Hawkins  began  to  feel  embar- 
rassed. "  I'd  have  asked  ye  to  sit  down,"  he  said,  finally, 
"  if  it  hed  been  a  place  fit  for  a  lady.  I  oughter  done  so, 
enny  way.  I  don't  know  what  kept  me  from  it.  But  I 
ain't  well,  Miss.  Times  I  get  a  sort  o'  dumb  ager — it's  the 
ditches,  I  think,  Miss — and  I  don't  seem  to  hev  my  wits 
about  me." 

Instantly  Miss  Arnot  was  all  sympathy — her  quick 
woman's  heart  was  touched. 

"  Can  I — can  anything  be  done  ? "  she  asked,  more 
timidly  than  she  had  before  spoken. 

"  No ! — not  onless  ye  remember  suthin'  about  these 
pills."  He  exhibited  a  box  containing  about  half-a-dozen. 
"  I  forget  the  direction — I  don't  seem  to  remember  much, 
any  way,  these  times — they're  'Jones'  Vegetable  Com- 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  361 

pound*  If  ye've  ever  took  'em  ye'll  remember  whether 
the  reg'lar  dose  is  eight.  They  ain't  but  six  here.  But 
perhaps  ye  never  tuk  any,"  he  added  deprecatingly. 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Nelly,  curtly.  She  had  usually  a  keen 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  but  somehow  Mr.  Hawkins'  eccen- 
tricity only  pained  her. 

"  Will  you  let  me  see  you  to  the  foot  of  the  hill  ?  "  he  said 
again,  after  another  embarrassing  pause. 

Miss  Arnot  felt  instantly  that  such  an  act  would  condone 
her  trespass  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  She  might  meet  some 
of  her  invisible  admirers — or  even  her  companions — and, 
with  all  her  erratic  impulses,  she  was  nevertheless  a  woman, 
and  did  not  entirely  despise  the  verdict  of  conventionality. 
She  smiled  sweetly  and  assented,  and  in  another  moment 
the  two  were  lost  in  the  shadows  of  the  wood 

Like  many  other  apparently  trivial  acts  in  an  uneventful 
life,  it  was  decisive.  As  she  expected,  she  met  two  or 
three  of  her  late  applauders,  whom,  she  fancied,  looked 
sheepish  and  embarrassed ;  she  met  also  her  companions 
looking  for  her  in  some  alarm,  who  really  appeared  astonished 
at  her  escort,  and,  she  fancied,  a  trifle  envious  of  her  evident 
success.  I  fear  that  Miss  Arnot,  in  response  to  their  anxious 
inquiries,  did  not  state  entirely  the  truth,  but,  without 
actual  assertion,  led  them  to  believe  that  she  had  at  a  very 
early  stage  of  the  proceeding  completely  subjugated  this 
weak-minded  giant,  and  had  brought  him  triumphantly  to 
her  feet.  From  telling  this  story  two  or  three  times  she 
£Ot  finally  to  believing  that  she  had  some  foundation  for  it ; 
then  to  a  vague  sort  of  desire  that  it  would  eventually  prove 
to  be  true,  and  then  to  an  equally  vague  yearning  to  hasten 
that  consummation.  That  it  would  redound  to  any  satis- 
faction of  the  Fool  she  did  not  stop  to  doubt.  That  it 
would  cure  him  of  his  folly  she  was  quite  confident.  Indeed, 
there  are  very  few  of  us — men  or  women — who  do  not 


362  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

believe  that  even  a  hopeless  love  for  ourselves  is  more  con- 
ducive to  the  salvation  of  the  lover  than  a  requited  affection 
for  another. 

The  criticism  of  Five  Forks  was,  as  the  reader  may 
imagine,  swift  and  conclusive.  When  it  was  found  out  that 
Miss  Arnot  was  not  "  the  Hag  "  masquerading  as  a  young 
and  pretty  girl,  to  the  ultimate  deception  of  Five  Forks  in 
general  and  the  Fool  in  particular,  it  was  decided  at  once  that 
nothing  but  the  speedy  union  of  the  Fool  and  the  "  pretty 
school-marm  "  was  consistent  with  ordinary  common  sense. 
The  singular  good  fortune  of  Hawkins  was  quite  in  accord- 
ance with  the  theory  of  his  luck  as  propounded  by  the 
camp.  That  after  "  the  Hag  "  failed  to  make  her  appear- 
ance he  should  "  strike  a  lead  "  in  his  own  house,  without 
the  trouble  of  "  prospectin',"  seemed  to  these  casuists  as 
a  wonderful  but  inevitable  law.  To  add  to  these  fateful 
probabilities,  Miss  Arnot  fell  and  sprained  her  ankle  in  the 
ascent  of  Mount  Lincoln,  and  was  confined  for  some  weeks 
to  the  hotel  after  her  companions  had  departed.  During 
this  period  Hawkins  was  civilly  but  grotesquely  attentive. 
When,  after  a  reasonable  time  had  elapsed,  there  still 
appeared  to  be  no  immediate  prospect  of  the  occupancy 
of  the  new  house,  public  opinion  experienced  a  singular 
change  in  regard  to  its  theories  of  Mr.  Hawkins'  conduct. 
"  The  •  Hag "  was  looked  upon  as  a  saint-like  and  long- 
suffering  martyr  to  the  weaknesses  and  inconsistency  of  the 
Fool.  That,  after  erecting  this  new  house  at  her  request, 
he  had  suddenly  "  gone  back  "  on  her ;  that  his  celibacy 
was  the  result  of  a  long  habit  of  weak  proposal  and  subse- 
quent shameless  rejection,  and  that  he  was  now  trying  his 
hand  on  the  helpless  school-marm,  was  perfectly  plain  to 
Five  Forks/  That  he  should  be  frustrated  in  his  attempts 
at  any  cost  was  equally  plain.  Miss  Nelly  suddenly  found 
herself  invested  with  a  rude  chivalry  that  would  have  been 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  363 

amusing  had  it  not  been  at  times  embarrassing ;  that  would 
have  been  impertinent  but  for  the  almost  superstitious 
respect  with  which  it  was  proffered.  Every  day  somebody 
from  Five  Forks  rode  out  to  inquire  the  health  of  the  fair 
patient.  "  Hez  Hawkins  bin  over  yer  to-day  ? "  queried 
Tom  Flynn,  with  artful  ease  and  indifference  as  he  leaned 
over  Miss  Nelly's  easy-chair  on  the  veranda.  Miss  Nelly, 
with  a  faint  pink  flush  on  her  cheek,  was  constrained  to 
answer  "No."  "Well,  he  sorter  sprained  his  foot  agin  a 
rock  yesterday,"  continued  Flynn,  with  shameless  untruth- 
fulness.  "  You  mus'n't  think  anything  o'  that,  Miss  Arnot. 
He'll  be  over  yer  to-morrer,  and  meantime  he  told  me  to 
hand  this  yer  bookay  with  his  regards,  and  this  yer  speci- 
men ! "  And  Mr.  Flynn  laid  down  the  flowers  he  had 
picked  en  route  against  such  an  emergency,  and  presented 
respectfully  a  piece  of  quartz  and  gold  which  he  had  taken 
that  morning  from  his  own  sluice-box.  "  You  mus'n't 
mind  Hawkins'  ways,  Miss  Nelly,"  said  another  sympathis- 
ing miner.  "  There  ain't  a  better  man  in  camp  than  that 
theer  Cy  Hawkins  ! — but  he  don't  understand  the  ways  o' 
the  world  with  wimen.  He  hasn't  mixed  as  much  with 
society  as  the  rest  of  us,"  he  added,  with  an  elaborate 
Chesterfieldian  ease  of  manner,  "but  he  means  well." 
Meanwhile  a  few  other  sympathetic  tunnel-men  were 
impressing  upon  Mr.  Hawkins  the  necessity  of  the  greatest 
attention  to  the  invalid.  "  It  won't  do,  Hawkins,"  they 
explained,  "  to  let  that  there  gal  go  back  to  San  Francisco 
and  say  that  when  she  was  sick  and  alone,  the  only  man 
in  Five  Forks  under  whose  roof  she  had  rested,  and  at 
whose  table  she  had  sat  " — this  was  considered  a  natural 
but  pardonable  exaggeration  of  rhetoric — "  ever  threw  off 
on  her ;  and  it  shan't  be  done.  It  ain't  the  square  thing  to 
Five  Forks."  And  then  the  Fool  would  rush  away  to  the 
valley,  and  be  received  by  Miss  Nelly  with  a  certain  reserve 


364  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

of  manner  that  finally  disappeared  in  a  flush  of  colour,  some 
increased  vivacity,  and  a  pardonable  coquetry.  And  so  the 
days  passed ;  Miss  Nelly  grew  better  in  health  and  more 
troubled  in  mind,  and  Mr.  Hawkins  became  more  and 
more  embarrassed,  and  Five  Forks  smiled  and  rubbed  its 
hands,  and  waited  for  the  approaching  denouement.  And 
then  it  came.  But  not  perhaps  in  the  maryier  that  Five 
Forks  had  imagined. 

It  was  a  lovely  afternoon  in  July  that  a  party  of  Eastern 
tourists  rode  into  Five  Forks.  They  had  just  "  done  "  the 
Valley  of  Big  Things,  and  there  being  one  or  two  Eastern 
capitalists  among  the  party,  it  was  deemed  advisable  that 
a  proper  knowledge  of  the  practical  mining  resources  of 
California  should  be  added  to  their  experience  of  the 
merely  picturesque  in  Nature.  Thus  far  everything  had 
been  satisfactory ;  the  amount  of  water  which  passed  over 
the  Fall  was  large,  owing  to  a  backward  season;  some 
snow  still  remained  in  the  canons  near  the  highest  peaks  ; 
they  had  ridden  round  one  of  the  biggest  trees,  and 
through  the  prostrate  trunk  of  another.  To  say  that 
they  were  delighted  is  to  express  feebly  the  enthusiasm 
of  these  ladies  and  gentlemen,  drunk  with  the  champagny 
hospitality  of  their  entertainers,  the  utter  novelty  of  scene, 
and  the  dry,  exhilarating  air  of  the  valley.  One  or  two 
had  already  expressed  themselves  ready  to  live  and  die 
there;  another  had  written  a  glowing  account  to  the 
Eastern  press,  depreciating  all  other  scenery  in  Europe 
and  America;  and  under  these  circumstances  it  was 
reasonably  expected  that  Five  Forks  would  do  its  duty, 
and  equally  impress  the  stranger  after  its  own  fashion. 

Letters  to  this  effect  were  sent  from  San  Francisco  by 
prominent  capitalists  there,  and  under  the  able  superin- 
tendence of  one  of  their  agents,  the  visitors  were  taken 
in  hand,  shown  "  what  was  to  be  seen,"  carefully  restrained 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  365 

from  observing  what  ought  not  to  be  visible,  and  so  kept 
in  a  blissful  and  enthusiastic  condition.  And  so  the 
graveyard  of  Five  Forks,  in  which  but  two  of  the  occu- 
pants had  died  natural  deaths,  the  dreary,  ragged  cabins 
on  the  hill-sides,  with  their  sad-eyed,  cynical,  broken- 
spirited  occupants,  toiling  on,  day  by  day,  for  a  miserable 
pittance  and  a  fare  that  a  self-respecting  Eastern  mechanic 
would  have  scornfully  rejected,  were  not  a  part  of  the 
Eastern  visitors'  recollection.  But  the  hoisting  works  and 
machinery  of  the  "  Blazing  Star  Tunnel  Company  "  was — 
the  Blazing  Star  Tunnel  Company,  whose  "gentlemanly 
Superintendent"  had  received  private  information  from 
San  Francisco  to  do  the  "proper  thing"  for  the  party. 
Wherefore  the  valuable  heaps  of  ore  in  the  company's 
works  were  shown,  the  oblong  bars  of  gold — ready  for 
shipment — were  playfully  offered  to  the  ladies  who  could 
lift  and  carry  them  away  unaided,  and  even  the  tunnel 
itself,  gloomy,  fateful,  and  peculiar,  was  shown  as  part  of 
the  experience ;  and,  in  the  noble  language  of  one  corre- 
spondent, "the  wealth  of  Five  Forks  and  the  peculiar 
inducements  that  it  offered  to  Eastern  capitalists"  were 
established  beyond  a  doubt.  And  then  occurred  a  little 
incident  which,  as  an  unbiassed  spectator,  I  am  free  to  say 
offered  no  inducements  to  anybody  whatever,  but  which, 
for  its  bearing  upon  the  central  figure  of  this  veracious 
chronicle,  I  cannot  pass  over. 

It  had  become  apparent  to  one  or  two  more  practical 
and  sober-minded  in  the  party  that  certain  portions  of 
the  "Blazing  Star"  Tunnel — (owing,  perhaps,  to  the  exi- 
gencies of  a  flattering  annual  dividend) — were  economically 
and  imperfectly  "  shored  "  and  supported,  and  were  conse- 
quently unsafe,  insecure,  and  to  be  avoided.  Nevertheless, 
at  a  time  when  champagne  corks  were  popping  in  dark 
corners,  and  enthusiastic  voices  and  happy  laughter  rang 


366  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

through  the  half-lighted  levels  and  galleries,  there  came 
a  sudden  and  mysterious  silence.  A  few  lights  dashed 
swiftly  by  in  the  direction  of  a  distant  part  of  the  gallery, 
and  then  there  was  a  sudden  sharp  issuing  of  orders  and 
a  dull,  ominous  rumble.  Some  of  the  visitors  turned  pale 
— one  woman  fainted  ! 

Something  had  happened.  What?  "Nothing" — the 
speaker  is  fluent  but  uneasy — "one  of  the  gentlemen  in 
trying  to  dislodge  a  *  specimen '  from  the  wall  had  knocked 
away  a  support.  There  had  been  a  'cave' — the  gentle- 
man was  caught  and  buried  below  his  shoulders.  It  was 
all  right — they'd  get  him  out  in  a  moment — only  it  required 
great  care  to  keep  from  extending  the  '  cave.'  Didn't 
know  his  name — it  was  that  little  man — the  husband  of 
that  lively  lady  with  the  black  eyes.  Eh  !  Hullo  there  ! 
Stop  her.  For  God's  sake!— not  that  way  !  She'll  fall 
from  that  shaft.  She'll  be  killed  !  " 

But  the  lively  lady  was  already  gone.  With  staring 
black  eyes,  imploringly  trying  to  pierce  the  gloom,  with 
hands  and  feet  that  sought  to  batter  and  break  down  the 
thick  darkness,  with  incoherent  cries  and  supplications, 
following  the  moving  of  ignis  fatuus  lights  ahead,  she  ran 
and  ran  swiftly  !  Ran  over  treacherous  foundations,  ran 
by  yawning  gulfs,  ran  past  branching  galleries  and  arches, 
ran  wildly,  ran  despairingly,  ran  blindly,  and  at  last  ran 
into  the  arms  of  the  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

In  an  instant  she  caught  at  his  hand.  "  Oh,  save  him  ! " 
she  cried;  "you  belong  here — you  know  this  dreadful 
place ;  bring  me  to  him.  Tell  me  where  to  go  and  what 
to  do,  I  implore  you  !  Quick,  he  is  dying.  Come  ! " 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  cry, 
dropped  the  rope  and  crowbar  he  was  carrying,  and  reeled 
against  the  wall.  "  Annie  !  "  he  gasped,  slowly,  "  is  it 
you  ?  " 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  367 

She  caught  at  both  his  hands,  brought  her  face  to  his 
with  staring  eyes,  murmured  "  Good  God,  Cyrus  ! "  and 
sank  upon  her  knees  before  him. 

He  tried  to  disengage  the  hand  that  she  wrung  with 
passionate  entreaty. 

"  No,  no  !  Cyrus,  you  will  forgive  me — you  will  forget 
the  past !  God  has  sent  you  here  to-day.  You  will  come 
with  me.  You  will — you  must —  save  him  !  * 

"  Save  who  ?  "  cried  Cyrus  hoarsely. 

"  My  husband  ! " 

The  blow  was  so  direct — so  strong  and  overwhelming — 
that  even  through  her  own  stronger  and  more  selfish  absorp- 
tion she  saw  it  in  the  face  of  the  man,  and  pitied  him. 

"  I  thought— you— knew — it  ! "  she  faltered.  He  did 
not  speak,  but  looked  at  her  with  fixed,  dumb  eyes.  And 
then  the  sound  of  distant  voices  and  hurrying  feet  started 
her  again  into  passionate  life.  She  once  more  caught  his 
hand. 

"  O  Cyrus !  hear  me  !  If  you  have  loved  me  through 
all  these  years,  you  will  not  fail  me  now.  You  must  save 
him !  You  can  !  You  are  brave  and  strong — you  always 
were,  Cyrus  !  You  will  save  him,  Cyrus,  for  my  sake— for 
the  sake  of  your  love  for  me  !  You  will — I  know  it ! 
God  bless  you  !  " 

She  rose  as  if  to  follow  him,  but  at  a  gesture  of  com- 
mand she  stood  still  He  picked  up  the  rope  and  crowbar 
slowly,  and  in  a  dazed,  blinded  way  that,  in  her  agony  of 
impatience  and  alarm,  seemed  protracted  to  cruel  infinity. 
Then  he  turned,  and  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips,  he  kissed 
it  slowly,  looked  at  her  again — and  the  next  moment  was 
gone. 

He  did  not  return.  For  at  the  end  of  the  next  half- 
hour,  when  they  laid  before  her  the  half-conscious  breath- 
ing body  of  her  husband,  safe  and  unharmed  but  for 


368  The  Fool  of  Five  Forks. 

exhaustion  and  some  slight  bruises,  she  learned  that  the 
worst  fears  of  the  workmen  had  been  realised.  In  releas- 
ing him  a  second  "  cave  "  had  taken  place.  They  had  barely 
time  to  snatch  away  the  helpless  body  of  her  husband 
before  the  strong  frame  of  his  rescuer,  Cyrus  Hawkins,  was 
struck  and  smitten  down  in  his  place. 

For  two  hours  he  lay  there,  crushed  and  broken-limbed, 
with  a  heavy  beam  lying  across  his  breast,  in  sight  of  all, 
conscious  and  patient  For  two  hours  they  had  laboured 
around  him,  wildly,  despairingly,  hopefully,  with  the  wills  of 
gods  and  the  strength  of  giants,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time 
they  came  to  an  upright  timber,  which  rested  its  base  upon 
the  beam.  There  was  a  cry  for  axes,  and  one  was  already 
swinging  in  the  air,  when  the  dying  man  called  to  them, 
feebly— 

"  Don't  cut  that  upright !  » 

"Why?" 

"  It  will  bring  down  the  whole  gallery  with  it" 

"How?" 

"  It's  one  of  the  foundations  of  my  house." 

The  axe  fell  from  the  workman's  hand,  and  with  a 
blanched  face  he  turned  to  his  fellows.  It  was  too  true. 
They  were  in  the  uppermost  gallery,  and  the  "  cave  "  had 
taken  place  directly  below  the  new  house.  After  a  pause 
the  Fool  spoke  again  more  feebly. 

"  The  lady  !— quick." 

They  brought  her — a  wretched,  fainting  creature,  with 
pallid  face  and  streaming  eyes — and  fell  back  as  she  bent 
her  face  above  him. 

"  It  was  built  for  you,  Annie,  darling,"  he  said  in  a  hur- 
ried whisper,  "  and  has  been  waiting  up  there  for  you  and 
me  all  these  long  days.  It's  deeded  to  you,  Annie,  and  you 
must — live  there — with  him!  He  will  not  mind  that  I  shall 
be  always  near  you — for  it  stands  above — my  grave  ! " 


The  Fool  of  Five  Forks.  369 

And  he  was  right.  In  a  few  minutes  later,  when  he  had 
passed  away,  they  did  not  move  him,  but  sat  by  his  body 
all  night  with  a  torch  at  his  feet  and  head.  And  the  next 
day  they  walled  up  the  gallery  as  a  vault,  but  they  put  no 
mark  or  any  sign  thereon,  trusting  rather  to  the  monument 
that,  bright  and  cheerful,  rose  above  him  in  the  sunlight  of 
the  hill.  For  they  said  :  "  This  is  not  an  evidence  of  death 
and  gloom  and  sorrow,  as  are  other  monuments,  but  is  a 
sign  of  Life  and  Light  and  Hope,  wherefore  shall  all  men 
know  that  he  who  lies  under  it — is  a  Fool  1 n 


(     370    ) 


Cfie  Q9an  from  @>olano. 


HE  came  toward  me  out  of  an  opera  lobby,  between  the 
acts  —  a  figure  as  remarkable  as  anything  in  the  perform- 
ance. His  clothes,  no  two  articles  of  which  were  of  the 
same  colour,  had  the  appearance  of  having  been  purchased 
and  put  on  only  an  hour  or  two  before  —  a  fact  more 
directly  established  by  the  clothes-dealer's  ticket  which  still 
adhered  to  his  coat-collar,  giving  the  number,  size,  and 
general  dimensions  of  that  garment  somewhat  obtrusively 
to  an  uninterested  public.  His  trousers  had  a  straight  line 
down  each  leg,  as  if  he  had  been  born  flat  but  had  since 
developed  ;  and  there  was  another  crease  down  his  back, 
like  those  figures  children  cut  out  of  folded  paper.  I  may 
add  that  there  was  no  consciousness  of  this  in  his  face, 
which  was  good-natured,  and,  but  for  a  certain  squareness 
in  the  angle  of  his  lower  jaw,  utterly  uninteresting  and 
commonplace. 

"  You  disremember  me,"  he  said  briefly,  as  he  extended 
his  hand,  "  but  I'm  from  Solano,  in  Californy.  I  met  you 
there  in  the  spring  of  '57.  I  was  tendin'  sheep,  and  you 
was  burnin'  charcoal." 

There  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  any  intentional  rude* 
ness  in  the  reminder.  It  was  simply  a  statement  of  fact, 
and  as  such  to  be  accepted. 

"  What  I  hailed  ye  for  was  only  this,"  he  said,  after  I 
had  shaken  hands  with  him.  "I  saw  you  a  minnit  ago 


The  Man  from  Solano.  371 

standin'  over  in  yon  box — chirpin'  with  a  lady — a  young 
lady,  peart  and  pretty.  Might  you  be  telling  me  her 
name  ?  " 

I  gave  him  the  name  of  a  certain  noted  belle  of  a  neigh- 
bouring city,  who  had  lately  stirred  the  hearts  of  the 
metropolis,  and  who  was  especially  admired  by  the  brilliant 
and  fascinating  young  Dashboard,  who  stood  beside  me. 

The  Man  from  Solano  mused  for  a  moment,  and  then 
aid,  "  Thet's  so  !  thet's  the  name  !  It's  the  same  gal ! " 

"  You  have  met  her,  then  ?  "  I  asked,  in  surprise. 

"Ye-es,"  he  responded  slowly;  "I  met  her  about  fower 
months  ago.  She'd  bin  makin'  a  tour  of  Californy  with 
some  friends,  and  I  first  saw  her  aboard  the  cars  this  side 
of  Reno.  She  lost  her  baggage  checks,  and  I  found  them 
on  the  floor  and  gave  'em  back  to  her,  and  she  thanked 
me.  I  reckon  now  it  would  be  about  the  square  thing  to 
go  over  thar  and  sorter  recognise  her."  He  stopped  a 
moment,  and  looked  at  us  inquiringly. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  struck  in  the  brilliant  and  fascinating 
young  Dashboard,  "  if  your  hesitation  proceeds  from  any 
doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  your  attire,  I  beg  you  to  dis- 
miss it  from  your  mind  at  once.  The  tyranny  of  custom, 
it  is  true,  compels  your  friend  and  myself  to  dress  pecu- 
liarly, but  I  assure  you  nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  way 
that  the  olive  green  of  your  coat  melts  in  the  delicate 
yellow  of  your  cravat,  or  the  pearl  gray  of  your  trousers 
blends  with  the  bright  blue  of  your  waistcoat,  and  lends 
additional  brilliancy  to  that  massive  oroid  watch-chain 
which  you  wear." 

To  my  surprise,  the  Man  from  Solano  did  not  strike  him. 
He  looked  at  the  ironical  Dashboard  with  grave  earnest- 
ness, and  then  said  quietly — 

"Then  I  reckon  you  wouldn't  mind  showin'  me  in 
thar?" 


372  The  Man  from  Solano. 

Dashboard  was,  I  admit,  a  little  staggered  at  this.  But 
he  recovered  himself,  and,  bowing  ironically,  led  the  way  to 
the  box.  I  followed  him  and  the  Man  from  Solano. 

Now  the  belle  in  question  happened  to  be  a  gentle- 
woman— descended  from  gentlewomen — and  after  Dash- 
board's ironical  introduction,  in  which  the  Man  from  Solano 
was  not  spared,  she  comprehended  the  situation  instantly. 
To  Dashboard's  surprise  she  drew  a  chair  to  her  side,  made 
the  Man  from  Solano  sit  down,  quietly  turned  her  back  on 
Dashboard,  and  in  full  view  of  the  brilliant  audience  and 
the  focus  of  a  hundred  lorgnettes,  entered  into  conversation 
with  him. 

Here,  for  the  sake  of  romance,  I  should  like  to  say  he 
became  animated,  and  exhibited  some  trait  of  excellence — 
some  rare  wit  or  solid  sense.  But  the  fact  is  he  was  dull 
and  stupid  to  the  last  degree.  He  persisted  in  keeping  the 
conversation  upon  the  subject  of  the  lost  baggage-checks, 
and  every  bright  attempt  of  the  lady  to  divert  him  failed 
signally.  At  last,  to  everybody's  relief,  he  rose,  and  lean- 
ing over  her  chair,  said — 

"  I  calklate  to  stop  over  here  some  time,  miss,  and  you 
and  me  bein'  sorter  strangers  here,  maybe  when  there's  any 
show  like  this  goin'  on  you'll  let  me  " — : — 

Miss  X.  said  somewhat  hastily  that  the  multiplicity  of 
her  engagements  and  the  brief  limit  of  her  stay  in  New 
York  she  feared  would,  &c.,  &c.  The  two  other  ladies  had 
their  handkerchiefs  over  their  mouths,  and  were  staring 
intently  on  the  stage,  when  the  Man  from  Solano  con- 
tinued— 

"  Then,  maybe,  miss,  whenever  there  is  a  show  goin'  on 
that  you'll  attend,  you'll  just  drop  me  word  to  Earle's 
Hotel,  to  this  yer  address,"  and  he  pulled  from  his  pocket 
a  dozen  well-worn  letters,  and  taking  the  buff  envelope 
from  one,  handed  it  to  her  with  something  like  a  bow. 


The  Man  from  Solano.  373 

"  Certainly,"  broke  in  the  facetious  Dashboard ;  "  Miss 
X.  goes  to  the  Charity  Ball  to-morrow  night.  The  tickets 
are  but  a  trifle  to  an  opulent  Californian,  and  a  man  of 
your  evident  means,  and  the  object  a  worthy  one.  You 
will,  no  doubt,  easily  secure  an  invitation." 

Miss  X.  raised  her  handsome  eyes  for  a  moment  to 
Dashboard.  "  By  all  means,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  Man 
from  Solano;  "and  as  Mr.  Dashboard  is  one  of  the 
managers,  and  you  are  a  stranger,  he  will,  of  course,  send 
you  a  complimentary  ticket  I  have  known  Mr.  Dash- 
board long  enough  to  know  that  he  is  invariably  courteous 
to  strangers  and  a  gentleman."  She  settled  herself  in  her 
chair  again  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  stage. 

The  Man  from  Solano  thanked  the  Man  of  New  York, 
and  then,  after  shaking  hands  with  everybody  in  the  box, 
turned  to  go.  When  he  had  reached  the  door  he  looked 
back  to  Miss  X.,  and  said — 

"  It  was  one  of  the  queerest  things  in  the  world,  miss, 
that  my  findin'  them  checks  " 

But  the  curtain  had  just  then  risen  on  the  garden 
scene  in  "Faust,"  and  Miss  X.  was  absorbed.  The  Man 
from  Solano  carefully  shut  the  box  door  and  retired.  I 
followed  him. 

He  was  silent  until  he  reached  the  lobby,  and  then  he 
said,  as  if  renewing  a  previous  conversation,  "She  is  a 
mighty  peart  gal — that's  so.  She's  just  my  kind,  and 
will  make  a  stavin'  good  wife." 

I  thought  I  saw  danger  ahead  for  the  Man  from  Solano, 
so  I  hastened  to  tell  him  that  she  was  beset  by  atten- 
tions, that  she  could  have  her  pick  and  choice  of  the 
best  of  society,  and  finally,  that  she  was,  most  probably, 
engaged  to  Dashboard. 

"That's  so,"  he  said  quietly,  without  the  slightest  trace 
of  feeling.  "It  would  be  mighty  queer  if  she  wasn't 


374  The  Man  from  Solano. 

But  I  reckon  I'll  steer  down  to  the  ho-teL  I  don't  care 
much  for  this  yellin'."  (He  was  alluding  to  a  cadenza  of 
that  famous  cantatrice,  Signora  Batti  Batti.)  "  What's  the 
time?  " 

He  pulled  out  his  watch.  It  was  such  a  glaring  chain, 
so  obviously  bogus,  that  my  eyes  were  fascinated  by  it. 
"You're  looking  at  that  watch,"  he  said;  "it's  purty  to 
look  at,  but  she  don't  go  worth  a  cent.  And  yet  her 
price  was  $125,  gold.  I  gobbled  her  up  in  Chatham 
Street  day  before  yesterday,  where  they  were  selling  'em 
very  cheap  at  auction." 

"You  have  been  outrageously  swindled,"  I  said  indig- 
nantly. "Watch  and  chain  are  not  worth  twenty  dollars." 

"  Are  they  worth  fifteen  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 

"Possibly." 

"  Then  I  reckon  it's  a  fair  trade.  Ye  see,  I  told  'em  I 
was  a  Californian  from  Solano,  and  hadn't  anything  about 
me  of  greenbacks.  I  had  three  slugs  with  me.  Ye 
remember  them  slugs  ?  "  (I  did  ;  the  "  slug  "  was  a  "  token  " 
issued  in  the  early  days — a  hexagonal  piece  of  gold  a 
little  over  twice  the  size  of  a  twenty-dollar  gold  piece — 
worth  and  accepted  for  fifty  dollars.) 

"Well,  I  handed  them  that,  and  they  handed  me  the 
watch.  You  see  them  slugs  I  had  made  myself  outer  brass 
filings  and  iron  pyrites,  and  used  to  slap  'em  down  on  the 
boys  for  a  bluff  in  a  game  of  draw  poker.  You  see,  not 
being  reg'lar  gov'ment  money,  it  wasn't  counterfeiting.  I 
reckon  they  cost  me,  counting  time  and  anxiety,  about 
fifteen  dollars.  So,  if  this  yer  watch  is  worth  that,  it's 
about  a  square  game,  ain't  it  ?  " 

I  began  to  understand  the  Man  from  Solano,  and  said 
it  was.  He  returned  his  watch  to  his  pocket,  toyed 
playfully  with  the  chain,  and  remarked,  "  Kinder  makes  a 
man  look  fash'nable  and  wealthy,  don't  it  ?  " 


The  Man  from  Solano.  375 

I  agreed  with  him.  "But  what  do  you  intend  to  do 
here  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Well,  I've  got  a  cash  capital  of  nigh  on  seven  hundred 
dollars.  I  guess  until  I  get  into  reg'lar  business  I'll 
skirmish  round  Wall  Street,  and  sorter  lay  low."  I  was 
about  to  give  him  a  few  words  of  warning,  but  I  remem- 
bered his  watch,  and  desisted.  We  shook  hands  and 
parted. 

A  few  days  after  I  met  him  on  Broadway.  He  was 
attired  in  another  new  suit,  but  I  think  I  saw  a  slight 
improvement  in  his  general  appearance.  Only  five  dis- 
tinct colours  were  visible  in  his  attire.  But  this,  I  had 
reason  .to  believe  afterwards,  was  accidental. 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  been  to  the  ball.  He  said  he 
had.  "  That  gal,  and  a  mighty  peart  gal  she  was  too, 
was  there,  but  she  sorter  fought  shy  of  me.  I  got  this 
new  suit  to  go  in,  but  those  waiters  sorter  run  me  into  a 
private  box,  and  I  didn't  get  much  chance  to  continner 
our  talk  about  them  checks.  But  that  young  feller,  Dash- 
board, was  mighty  perlite.  He  brought  lots  of  fellers  and 
young  women  round  to  the  box  to  see  me,  and  he  made 
up  a  party  that  night  to  take  me  round  Wall  Street  and  in 
them  Stock  Boards.  And  the  next  day  he  called  for  me, 
and  took  me,  and  I  invested  about  five  hundred  dollars  in 
them  stocks — maybe  more.  You  see,  we  sorter  swopped 
stocks.  You  know  I  had  ten  shares  in  the  Peacock 
Copper  Mine,  that  you  was  once  secretary  of." 

"  But  those  shares  are  not  worth  a  cent  The  whole 
thing  exploded  ten  years  ago." 

"  That's  so,  maybe ;  you  say  so.  But  then  I  didn't 
know  anything  more  about  Communipaw  Central,  or  the 
Naphtha  Gaslight  Company,  and  so  I  thought  it  was  a 
square  game.  Only  I  realised  on  the  stocks  I  bought, 
and  I  kem  up  outer  Wall  Street  about  four  hundred  dollars 


376  The  Man  from  Solano. 

better.  You  see  it  was  a  sorter  risk,  after  all,  for  them 
Peacock  stocks  might  come  up  ! " 

I  looked  into  his  face :  it  was  immeasurably  serene  and 
commonplace.  I  began  to  be  a  little  afraid  of  the  man, 
or,  rather,  of  my  want  of  judgment  of  the  man ;  and  after 
a  few  words  we  shook  hands  and  parted. 

It  was  some  months  before  I  again  saw  the  Man  from 
Solano.  When  I  did,  I  found  that  he  had  actually  become 
a  member  of  the  Stock  Board,  and  had  a  little  office  on 
Broad  Street,  where  he  transacted  a  fair  business.  My 
remembrance  going  back  to  the  first  night  I  met  him,  I 
inquired  if  he  had  renewed  his  acquaintance  with  Miss 
X. 

"I  heerd  that  she  was  in  Newport  this  summer,  and 
I  ran  down  there  fur  a  week." 

"  And  you  talked  with  her  about  the  baggage-checks  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said  seriously ;  "  she  gave  me  a  commission 
to  buy  some  stocks  for  her.  You  see,  I  guess  them  fash'- 
nable  fellers  sorter  got  to  runnin'  her  about  me,  and  so 
she  put  our  acquaintance  on  a  square  business  footing. 
I  tell  you,  she's  a  right  peart  gal.  Did  ye  hear  of  the 
accident  that  happened  to  her  ?  " 

I  had  not 

"Well,  you  see,  she  was  out  yachting,  and  I  managed 
through  one  of  those  fellers  to  get  an  invite  too.  The 
whole  thing  was  got  up  by  a  man  that  they  say  is  going 
to  marry  her.  Well,  one  afternoon  the  boom  swings 
round  in  a  little  squall  and  knocks  her  overboard.  There 
was  an  awful  excitement, — you've  heard  about  it,  maybe?" 

"  No  ! "  But  I  saw  it  all  with  a  romancer's  instinct  in 
a  flash  of  poetry !  This  poor  fellow,  debarred  through 
uncouthness  from  expressing  his  affection  for  her,  had  at 
last  found  his  fitting  opportunity.  He  had 

"  Thar  was  an  awful  row,"  he  went  on.     "  I  ran  out  on 


The  Man  from  Solano.  $77 

the  taffrail,  and  there  a  dozen  yards  away  was  that  purty 
creature,  that  peart  gal,  and —  I  " 

"  You  jumped  for  her,"  I  said  hastily. 

"  No  !  "  he  said  gravely.  "  I  let  the  other  man  do  the 
jumping.  I  sorter  looked  on." 

I  stared  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"  No,"  he  went  on  seriously.  "  He  was  the  man  who 
jumped — that  was  just  then  his  '  put ' — his  line  of  business. 
You  see  if  I  had  waltzed  over  the  side  of  that  ship,  and 
cavoorted  in,  and  flummuxed  round  and  finally  flopped  to 
the  bottom,  that  other  man  would  have  jumped  nateral-like 
and  saved  her ;  and  ez  he  was  going  to  marry  her  any  way, 
I  don't  exactly  see  where  Pd  hev  been  represented  in  the 
transaction.  But  don't  you  see,  ef,  after  he'd  jumped  and 
hadn't  got  her,  he'd  gone  down  himself,  I'd  hev  had  the 
next  best  chance,  and  the  advantage  of  heving  him  outer 
the  way.  You  see,  you  don't  understand  me — I  don't  think 
you  did  in  Californy." 

"Then he  did  save  her?" 

"  Of  course.  Don't  you  see  she  was  all  right.  If  he'd 
missed  her,  I'd  have  chipped  in.  Tnar  warn't  no  sense  in 
my  doing  his  duty  onless  he  failed." 

Somehow  the  story  got  out.  The  Man  from  Solano  as  a 
butt  became  more  popular  than  ever,  and  of  course  received 
invitations  to  burlesque  receptions,  and  naturally  met  a 
great  many  people  whom  otherwise  he  would  not  have  seen. 
It  was  observed  also  that  his  seven  hundred  dollars  were 
steadily  growing,  and  that  he  seemed  to  be  getting  on  in 
his  business.  Certain  Californian  stocks  which  I  had  seen 
quietly  interred  in  the  old  days  in  the  tombs  of  their  fathers 
were  magically  revived ;  and  I  remember,  as  one  who  has 
seen  a  ghost,  to  have  been  shocked  as  I  looked  over  the 
quotations  one  morning  to  have  seen  the  ghastly  face  of  the 
"  Dead  Beach  Mining  Co.,"  rouged  and  plastered,  looking 


378  The  Man  from  Solano. 

out  from  the  columns  of  the  morning  paper.  At  last  &  few 
people  began  to  respect,  or  suspect,  the  Man  from  Solano. 
At  last  suspicion  culminated  with  this  incident : — 

He  had  long  expressed  a  wish  to  belong  to  a  certain 
"  fash'n'ble  "  club,  and  with  a  view  of  burlesque  he  was  in- 
vited to  visit  the  club,  where  a  series  of  ridiculous  entertain- 
ments were  given  him,  winding  up  with  a  card  party.  As  I 
passed  the  steps  of  the  club-house  early  next  morning,  I 
overheard  two  or  three  members  talking  excitedly, — 

"  He  cleaned  everybody  out."  "  Why,  he  must  have 
raked  in  nigh  on  $40,000." 

"Who?"  I  asked. 

"The  Man  from  Solano." 

As  I  turned  away,  one  of  the  gentlemen,  a  victim,  noted 
for  his  sporting  propensities,  followed  me,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder,  asked — 

"Tell  me  fairly  now.  What  business  did  your  friend 
follow  in  California  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  shepherd." 

"A  what?" 

"  A  shepherd.  Tended  his  flocks  on  the  honey-scented 
hills  of  Solano." 

"Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  d — n  your  Californian  pastorals  I" 


(    379    ) 


of 


IT  was  a  vast  silence  of  pines,  redolent  with  balsamic  breath, 
and  muffled  with  the  dry  dust  of  dead  bark  and  matted 
mosses.  Lying  on  our  backs,  we  looked  upward  through  a 
hundred  feet  of  clear,  unbroken  interval  to  the  first  lateral 
branches  that  formed  the  flat  canopy  above  us.  Here  and 
there  the  fierce  sun,  from  whose  active  persecution  we  had 
just  escaped,  searched  for  us  through  the  woods,  but  its 
keen  blade  was  dulled  and  turned  aside  by  intercostal 
boughs,  and  its  brightness  dissipated  in  nebulous  mists 
throughout  the  roofing  of  the  dim,  brown  aisles  around  us. 
We  were  in  another  atmosphere,  under  another  sky  ;  indeed, 
in  another  world  than  the  dazzling  one  we  had  just  quitted. 
The  grave  silence  seemed  so  much  a  part  of  the  grateful 
coolness,  that  we  hesitated  to  speak,  and  for  some  moments 
lay  quietly  outstretched  on  the  pine  tassels  where  we  had  first 
thrown  ourselves.  Finally,  a  voice  broke  the  silence  — 
"  Ask  the  old  Major  ;  he  knows  all  about  it  !  " 
The  person  here  alluded  to  under  that  military  title  was 
myself.  I  hardly  need  explain  to  any  Californian  that  it  by 
no  means  followed  that  I  was  a  "  Major,"  or  that  I  was 
"old,"  or  that  I  knew  anything  about  "it,"  or  indeed  what 
"it"  referred  to.  The  whole  remark  was  merely  one  of 
the  usual  conventional  feelers  to  conversation,  —  a  kind  of 
social  preamble,  quite  common  to  our  slangy  camp  inter- 
course. Nevertheless,  as  I  was  always  known  as  the  Major, 


380  A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras. 

perhaps  for  no  better  reason  than  that  the  speaker,  an  old 
journalist,  was  always  called  Doctor,  I  recognised  the  fact 
so  far  as  to  kick  aside  an  intervening  saddle,  so  that  I  could 
see  the  speaker's  face  on  a  level  with  my  own,  and  said 
nothing. 

"About  ghosts!"  said  the  Doctor,  after  a  pause,  which 
nobody  broke  or  was  expected  to  break.  "  Ghosts,  sir ! 
That's  what  we  want  to  know.  What  are  we  doing  here  in 
this  blank  old  mausoleum  of  Calaveras  County,  if  it  isn't  to 
find  out  something  about  'em,  eh  ?  " 

Nobody  replied. 

"  Thar's  that  haunted  house  at  Cave  City.  Can't  be  more 
than  a  mile  or  two  away,  anyhow.  Used  to  be  just  off  the 
trail." 

A  dead  silence. 

The  Doctor  (addressing  space  generally)  :  "  Yes,  sir ;  it 
was  a  mighty  queer  story." 

Still  the  same  reposeful  indifference.  We  all  knew  the 
Doctor's  skill  as  a  raconteur ;  we  all  knew  that  a  story  was 
coming,  and  we  all  knew  that  any  interruption  would  be 
fatal.  Time  and  time  again,  in  our  prospecting  experience, 
had  a  word  of  polite  encouragement,  a  rash  expression  of 
interest,  even  a  too  eager  attitude  of  silent  expectancy, 
brought  the  Doctor  to  a  sudden  change  of  subject.  Time 
and  time  again  have  we  seen  the  unwary  stranger  stand 
amazed  and  bewildered  between  our  own  indifference  and 
the  sudden  termination  of  a  promising  anecdote,  through 
his  own  unlucky  interference.  So  we  said  nothing.  "  The 
Judge  " — another  instance  of  arbitrary  nomenclature — pre- 
tended to  sleep.  Jack  began  to  twist  a  cigarrito.  Thorn- 
ton bit  off  the  ends  of  pine  needles  reflectively. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  continued  the  Doctor,  coolly  resting  the  back 
of  his  head  on  the  palms  of  his  hands,  "  it  was  rather 
curious.  All  except  the  murder.  Thafs  what  gets  me, 


A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras.  381 

for  the  murder  had  no  new  points,  no  fancy  touches,  no 
sentiment,  no  mystery.  Was  just  one  of  the  old  style, 
"  sub-head  "  paragraphs.  Old-fashioned  miner  scrubs  along 
on  hardtack  and  beans,  and  saves  up  a  little  money  to  go 
home  and  see  relations.  Old-fashioned  assassin  sharpens 
up  knife,  old  style ;  loads  old  flint-lock,  brass-mounted 
pistols;  walks  in  on  old-fashioned  miner  one  dark  night, 
sends  him  home  to  his  relations  away  back  to  several 
generations,  and  walks  off  with  the  swag.  No  mystery 
there ;  nothing  to  clear  up ;  subsequent  revelations  only 
impertinence.  Nothing  for  any  ghost  to  do — who  meant 
business.  More  than  that,  over  forty  murders,  same  old 
kind,  committed  every  year  in  Calaveras,  and  no  spiritual 
post  obits  coming  due  every  anniversary;  no  assessments 
made  on  the  peace  and  quiet  of  the  surviving  community. 
I  tell  you  what,  boys,  I've  always  been  inclined  to  throw 
off  on  the  Cave  City  ghost  for  that  alone.  It's  a  bad  pre- 
cedent, sir.  If  that  kind  o'  thing  is  going  to  obtain  in  the 
foot-hills,  we'll  have  the  trails  full  of  chaps  formerly  knocked 
over  by  Mexicans  and  road  agents ;  every  little  camp  and 
grocery  will  have  stock  enough  on  hand  to  go  into  business, 
and  where's  there  any  security  for  surviving  life  and  pro- 
perty, eh?  What's  your  opinion,  Judge,  as  a  fair-minded 
legislator  ?  " 

Of  course  there  was  no  response.  Yet  it  was  part  of  the 
Doctor's  system  of  aggravation  to  become  discursive  at 
these  moments,  in  the  hope  of  interruption,  and  he  con- 
tinued for  some  moments  to  dwell  on  the  terrible  possibility 
of  a  state  of  affairs  in  which  a  gentleman  could  no  longer 
settle  a  dispute  with  an  enemy  without  being  subjected  to 
succeeding  spiritual  embarrassment.  But  all  this  digression 
fell  upon  apparently  inattentive  ears. 

"  Well,  sir,  after  the  murder,  the  cabin  stood  for  a  long 
time  deserted  and  tenantless.  Popular  opinion  was  against 


382  A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras. 

it.  One  day  a  ragged  prospector,  savage  with  hard  labour 
and  harder  luck,  came  to  the  camp,  looking  for  a  place  to 
live  and  a  chance  to  prospect.  After  the  boys  had  taken 
his  measure,  they  concluded  that  he'd  already  tackled  so 
much  in  the  way  of  difficulties  that  a  ghost  more  or  less 
wouldn't  be  of  much  account.  So  they  sent  him  to  the 
haunted  cabin.  He  had  a  -big  yellow  dog  with  him,  about 
as  ugly  and  as  savage  as  himself;  and  the  boys  sort  o'  con- 
gratulated themselves,  from  a  practical  view  point,  that 
while  they  were  giving  the  old  ruffian  a  shelter,  they  were 
helping  in  the  cause  of  Christianity  against  ghosts  and  gob- 
lins. They  had  little  faith  in  the  old  man,  but  went  their 
whole  pile  on  that  dog.  That's  where  they  were  mistaken. 

"  The  house  stood  almost  three  hundred  feet  from  the 
nearest  cave,  and  on  dark  nights,  being  in  a  hollow,  was  as 
lonely  as  if  it  had  been  on  the  top  of  Shasta.  If  you  ever 
saw  the  spot  when  there  was  just  moon  enough  to  bring 
out  the  little  surrounding  clumps  of  chaparral  until  they 
looked  like  crouching  figures,  and  make  the  bits  of  broken 
quartz  glisten  like  skulls,  you'd  begin  to  understand  how 
big  a  contract  that  man  and  that  yellow  dog  undertook. 

"  They  went  into  possession  that  afternoon,  and  old  Hard 
Times  set  out  to  cook  his  supper.  When  it  was  over  he 
sat  down  by  the  embers  and  lit  his  pipe,  the  yellow  dog 
lying  at  his  feet.  Suddenly  '  Rap  !  rap  ! '  comes  from  the 
door.  *  Come  in,'  says  the  man  gruffly.  '  Rap  ! '  again. 
*  Come  in  and  be  d — d  to  you/  says  the  man,  who  had  no 
idea  of  getting  up  to  open  the  door.  But  no  one  responded, 
and  the  next  moment  smash  goes  the  only  sound  pane  in 
the  only  window.  Seeing  this,  old  Hard  Times  gets  up, 
with  the  devil  in  his  eye,  and  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  fol- 
lowed by  the  yellow  dog,  with  every  teeth  showing,  and 
swings  open  the  door.  No  one  there  !  But  as  the  man 
opened  the  door,  that  yellow  dog,  that  had  been  so  chipper 


A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras.  383 

before,  suddenly  begins  to  crouch  and  step  backward,  step 
by  step,  trembling  and  shivering,  and  at  last  crouches 
down  in  the  chimney,  without  even  so  much  as  looking  at 
his  master.  The  man  slams  the  door  shut  again,  but  there 
comes  another  smash.  This  time  it  seems  to  come  from 
inside  the  cabin,  and  it  isn't  until  the  man  looks  around 
and  sees  everything  quiet  that  he  gets  up,  without  speaking, 
and  makes  a  dash  for  the  door,  and  tears  round  outside  the 
cabin  like  mad,  but  finds  nothing  but  silence  and  darkness. 
Then  he  comes  back  swearing  and  calls  the  dog.  But  that 
great  yellow  dog  that  the  boys  would  have  staked  all  their 
money  on  is  crouching  under  the  bunk,  and  has  to  be 
dragged  out  like  a  coon  from  a  hollow  tree,  and  lies  there, 
his  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets  ;  every  limb  and  muscle 
quivering  with  fear,  and  his  very  hair  drawn  up  in  bristling 
ridges.  The  man  calls  him  to  the  door.  He  drags  him- 
self a  few  steps,  stops,  sniffs,  and  refuses  to  go  farther. 
The  man  calls  him  again,  with  an  oath  and  a  threat.  Then, 
what  does  that  yellow  dog  do?  He  crawls  edgewise  to- 
wards the  door,  crouching  himself  against  the  bunk,  till  he's 
flatter  than  a  knife  blade ;  then,  half-way,  he  stops.  Then 
that  d — d  yellow  dog  begins  to  walk  gingerly — lifting  each 
foot  up  in  the  air,  one  after  the  other,  still  trembling  in 
every  limb.  Then  he  stops  again.  Then  he  crouches. 
Then  he  gives  one  little  shuddering  leap— not  straight  for- 
ward, but  up, — clearing  the  floor  about  six  inches,  as 
if" 

"Over  something,"  interrupted  the  Judge  hastily,  lift- 
ing himself  on  his  elbow. 

The  Doctor  stopped  instantly.  "Juan,"  he  said  coolly 
to  one  of  the  Mexican  packers,  "quit  foolin'  with  that 
riata.  You'll  have  that  stake  out  and  that  mule  loose  in 
another  minute.  Come  over  this  way  !  " 

The  Mexican  turned  a  scared,  white  face  to  the  Doctor, 


384  A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras. 

muttering  something,  and  let  go  the  deerskin  hide.  We 
all  up-raised  our  voices  with  one  accord,  the  Judge  most 
penitently  and  apologetically,  and  implored  the  Doctor  to 
go  on.  "  I'll  shoot  the  first  man  who  interrupts  you  again," 
added  Thornton  persuasively. 

But  the  Doctor,  with  his  hands  languidly  under  his  head, 
had  lost  his  interest.  "  Well,  the  dog  ran  off  to  the  hills, 
and  neither  the  threats  nor  cajoleries  of  his  master  could 
ever  make  him  enter  the  cabin  again.  The  next  day  the 
man  left  the  camp.  What  time  is  it  ?  Getting  on  to  sun- 
down, ain't  it?  Keep  off  my  leg,  will  you,  you  d — d 
Greaser,  and  stop  stumbling  round  there  !  Lie  down." 

But  we  knew  that  the  Doctor  had  not  completely  finished 
his  story,  and  we  waited  patiently  for  the  conclusion. 
Meanwhile  the  old,  gray  silence  of  the  woods  again  asserted 
itself,  but  shadows  were  now  beginning  to  gather  in  the 
heavy  beams  of  the  roof  above,  and  the  dim  aisles  seemed 
to  be  narrowing  and  closing  in  around  us.  Presently  the 
Doctor  recommenced  lazily,  as  if  no  interruption  had 
occurred. 

"  As  I  said  before,  I  never  put  much  faith  in  that  story, 
and  shouldn't  have  told  it,  but  for  a  rather  curious  experi- 
ence of  my  own.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  '62,  and  I  was 
one  of  a  party  of  four,  coming  up  from  O'Neill's,  when  we 
had  been  snowed  up.  It  was  awful  weather ;  the  snow  had 
changed  to  sleet  and  rain  after  we  crossed  the  divide,  and 
the  water  was  out  everywhere ;  every  ditch  was  a  creek, 
every  creek  a  river.  We  had  lost  two  horses  on  the  North 
Fork,  we  were  dead  beat,  off  the  trail,  and  sloshing  round, 
with  night  coming  on,  and  the  level  hail  like  shot  in  our 
faces.  Things  were  looking  bleak  and  scary  when,  riding 
a  little  ahead  of  the  party,  I  saw  a  light  twinkling  in  a 
hollow  beyond.  My  horse  was  still  fresh,  and  calling  out 
to  the  boys  to  follow  me  and  bear  for  the  light,  I  struck 


A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras.  385 

out  for  it  In  another  moment  I  was  before  a  little  cabin 
that  half  burrowed  in  the  black  chaparral ;  I  dismounted 
and  rapped  at  the  door.  There  was  no  response.  I  then 
tried  to  force  the  door,  but  it  was  fastened  securely  from 
within.  I  was  all  the  more  surprised  when  one  of  the  boys, 
who  had  overtaken  me,  told  me  that  he  had  just  seers 
through  a  window  a  man  reading  by  the  fire.  Indignant 
at  this  inhospitality,  we  both  made  a  resolute  onset  against 
the  door,  at  the  same  time  raising  our  angry  voices  to  a 
yell.  Suddenly  there  was  a  quick  response,  the  hurried 
withdrawing  of  a  bolt,  and  the  door  opened. 

"  The  occupant  was  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a  pale, 
careworn  face,  whose  prevailing  expression  was  one  of 
gentle  good-humour  and  patient  suffering.  When  we 
entered,  he  asked  us  hastily  why  we  had  not  '  sung  out ' 
before. 

"  '  But  we  knocked ! '  I  said  impatiently,  '  and  almost 
drove  your  door  in.' 

" '  That's  nothing,'  he  said  patiently.  *  I'm  used  to 
that: 

"  I  looked  again  at  the  man's  patient,  fateful  face,  and 
then  around  the  cabin.  In  an  instant  the  whole  situa- 
tion flashed  before  me.  '  Are  we  not  near  Cave  City  ? '  I 
asked. 

"  '  Yes,'  he  replied,  '  it's  just  below.  You  must  have 
passed  it  in  the  storm.' 

"(I  see.'  I  again  looked  around  the  cabin.  'Isn't 
this  what  they  call  the  haunted  house  ? ' 

"  He  looked  at  me  curiously.     '  It  is,'  he  said  simply. 

"  You  can  imagine  my  delight !  Here  was  an  oppor- 
tunity to  test  the  whole  story,  to  work  down  to  the  bed 
rock,  and  see  how  it  would  pan  out !  We  were  too  many 
and  too  well  armed  to  fear  tricks  or  dangers  from  outsiders. 
If— as  one  theory  had  been  held — the  disturbance  was  kept 

VOL.  III.  2  B 


386  A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras. 

up  by  a  band  of  concealed  marauders  or  road  agents,  whose 
purpose  was  to  preserve  their  haunts  from  intrusion,  we 
were  quite  able  to  pay  them  back  in  kind  for  any  assault 
I  need  not  say  that  the  boys  were  delighted  with  this  pros- 
pect when  the  fact  was  revealed  to  them.  The  only  one 
doubtful  and  apathetic  spirit  there  was  our  host,  who  quietly 
resumed  his  seat  and  his  book,  with  his  old  expression  of 
patient  martyrdom.  It  would  have  been  easy  for  me  to 
have  drawn  him  out,  but  I  felt  that  I  did  not  want  to 
corroborate  anybody  else's  experience ;  only  to  record  my 
own.  And  I  thought  it  better  to  keep  the  boys  from  any 
predisposing  terrors. 

"  We  ate  our  supper,  and  then  sat,  patiently  and  expec- 
tant, around  the  fire.  An  hour  slipped  away,  but  no  dis- 
turbance ;  another  hour  passed  as  monotonously.  Our  host 
read  his  book ;  only  the  dash  of  hail  against  the  roof  broke 
the  silence.  But " 

The  Doctor  stopped.  Since  the  last  interruption,  I 
noticed  he  had  changed  the  easy  slangy  style  of  his  story 
to  a  more  perfect,  artistic,  and  even  studied  manner.  He 
dropped  now  suddenly  into  his  old  colloquial  speech,  and 
quietly  said,  "  If  you  don't  quit  stumbling  over  those  riatas^ 
Juan,  I'll  hobble  you.  Come  here,  there ;  lie  down,  will 
you?" 

We  all  turned  fiercely  on  the  cause  of  this  second 
dangerous  interruption,  but  a  sight  of  the  poor  fellow's 
pale  and  frightened  face  withheld  our  vindictive  tongues. 
And  the  Doctor,  happily,  of  his  own  accord,  went  on  : — 

"  But  I  had  forgotten  that  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  keep 
these  high-spirited  boys,  bent  on  a  row,  in  decent  subjec- 
tion ;  and  after  the  third  hour  passed  without  a  supernatural 
exhibition,  I  observed,  from  certain  winks  and  whispers, 
that  they  were  determined  to  get  up  indications  of  their 
own.  In  a  few  moments  violent  rappings  were  heard  frorn 


A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras.  387 

all  parts  of  the  cabin ;  large  stones  (adroitly  thrown  up  the 
chimney)  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  on  the  roof.  Strange  groans 
and  ominous  yells  seemed  to  come  from  the  outside  (where 
the  interstices  between  the  logs  were  wide  enough).  Yet, 
through  all  this  uproar,  our  host  sat  still  and  patient,  with 
no  sign  of  indignation  or  reproach  upon  his  good-humoured 
but  haggard  features.  Before  long  it  became  evident  that 
this  exhibition  was  exclusively  for  his  benefit.  Under  the 
thin  disguise  of  asking  him  to  assist  them  in  discovering 
the  disturbers  outside  the  cabin,  those  inside  took  advantage 
of  his  absence  to  turn  the  cabin  topsy-turvy. 

" '  You  see  what  the  spirits  have  done,  old  man,'  said 
the  arch  leader  of  this  mischief.  '  They've  upset  that 
there  flour  barrel  while  we  wasn't  looking,  and  then  kicked 
over  the  water-jug  and  spilled  all  the  water  ! ' 

"The  patient  man  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  the 
flour-strewn  walls.  Then  he  glanced  down  at  the  floor,  but 
drew  back  with  a  slight  tremor. 

"  *  It  ain't  water  ! '  he  said  quietly, 

"  '  What  is  it  then  ? ' 

" « It's  BLOOD  !     Look  ! ' 

"  The  nearest  man  gave  a  sudden  start  and  sank  back 
white  as  a  sheet. 

"  For  there,  gentlemen,  on  the  floor,  just  before  the  door, 
where  the  old  man  had  seen  the  dog  hesitate  and  lift  his 
feet,  there  !  there  ! — gentlemen — upon  my  honour,  slowly 
widened  and  broadened  a  dark  red  pool  of  human  blood  ! 
Stop  him  !  Quick  !  Stop  him,  I  say  !  " 

There  was  a  blinding  flash  that  lit  up  the  dark  woods, 
and  a  sharp  report !  When  we  reached  the  Doctor's  side 
he  was  holding  the  smoking  pistol,  just  discharged,  in  one 
hand,  while  wkh  the  other  he  was  pointing  to  the  rapidly 
disappearing  figure  of  Juan,  our  Mexican  vaquero  I 

"Missed  him  !  by  G— d  !"  said  the  Doctor.     "But  did 


388  A  Ghost  of  the  Sierras. 

you  hear  him  ?  Did  you  see  his  livid  face  as  he  rose  up 
at  the  name  of  blood  ?  Did  you  see  his  guilty  conscience 
in  his  face.  Eh  ?  Why  don't  you  speak  ?  What  are  you 
staring  at  ?  " 

"  Was  it  the  murdered  man's  ghost,  Doctor  ? "  we  all 
panted  in  one  quick  breath. 

"  Ghost  be  d — d  !  No  !  But  in  that  Mexican  vaquero 
— that  cursed  Juan  Ramirez! — I  saw  and  shot  at  his 
murderer! " 


EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


(    39i     ) 


Htetos  from  a  (German 


OUTSIDE  of  my  window,  two  narrow  perpendicular  mirrors, 
parallel  with  the  casement,  project  in  the  street,  yet  with  a 
certain  unobtrusiveness  of  angle  that  enables  them  to  reflect 
the  people  who  pass  without  any  reciprocal  disclosure  of 
their  own.  The  men  and  women,  hurrying  by,  not  only  do 
not  know  they  are  observed,  but,  what  is  worse,  do  not 
even  see  their  own  reflection  in  this  hypocritical  plane,  and 
are  consequently  unable  through  its  aid  to  correct  any 
carelessness  of  garb,  gait,  or  demeanour.  At  first  this 
seems  to  be  taking  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  human  animal, 
who  invariably  assumes  an  attitude  when  he  is  conscious 
of  being  under  human  focus  ;  but  I  observe  that  my 
neighbours'  windows,  right  and  left,  have  a  similar  appa- 
ratus, that  this  custom  is  evidently  a  local  one,  and  the 
locality  is  German.  Being  an  American  stranger,  I  am 
quite  willing  to  leave  the  morality  of  the  transaction  with 
the  locality  and  adapt  myself  to  the  custom.  Indeed  I  had 
thought  of  offering  it,  figuratively,  as  an  excuse  for  any 
unfairness  of  observation  I  might  make  in  these  pages  ; 
but  my  German  mirrors  reflect  without  prejudice,  selection, 
or  comment,  and  the  American  eye,  I  fear,  is  but  mortal, 
and,  like  all  mortal  eyes,  figuratively,  as  well  as  in  that  literal 
fact  noted  by  an  eminent  scientific  authority,  infinitely 
inferior  to  the  work  of  the  best  German  opticians. 

And  this  leads  me  to  my  first  observation,  namely,  that, 


392  Views  from  a  German  Spion. 

a  majority  of  those  who  pass  my  mirror  have  weak  eyes, 
and  have  already  invoked  the  aid  of  the  optician.  Why 
are  these  people,  physically  in  all  else  so  much  stronger 
than  my  countrymen,  deficient  in  eyesight?  Or,  to  omit 
the  passing  testimony  of  my  Spion,  and  take  my  own 
personal  experience,  why  does  my  young  friend  Max — 
brightest  of  all  schoolboys,  who  already  wears  the  cap 
that  denotes  the  highest  class — why  does  he  shock  me  by 
suddenly  drawing  forth  a  pair  of  spectacles,  that  upon  his 
fresh,  rosy  face  would  be  an  obvious  mocking  imitation  of 
the  Herr  Papa — if  German  children  could  ever,  by  any 
possibility,  be  irreverent  ?  Or  why  does  the  Fraulein  Marie, 
his  sister,  pink  as  Aurora,  round  as  Hebe,  suddenly  veil 
her  blue  eyes  with  a  golden  lorgnette  in  the  midst  of  our 
polyglot  conversation  ?  Is  it  to  evade  the  direct,  admiring 
glance  of  the  impulsive  American  ?  Dare  I  say  no  ?  Dare 
I  say  that  that  frank,  clear,  honest,  earnest  return  of  the 
eye,  which  has,  on  the  Continent,  most  unfairly  brought 
my  fair  countrywomen  under  criticism,  is  quite  as  common 
to  her  more  carefully  guarded,  tradition-hedged  German 
sisters  ?  No,  it  is  not  that !  Is  it  anything  in  these 
emerald  and  opal-tinted  skies,  which  seem  so  unreal  to  the 
American  eye,  and  for  the  first  time  explain  what  seemed 
the  unreality  of  German  art? — in  these  mysterious  yet 
restful  Rhine  fogs,  which  prolong  the  twilight  and  hang 
the  curtain  of  romance  even  over  mid-day?  Surely  not. 
Is  it  not  rather,  O  Herr  Professor,  profound  in  analogy 
and  philosophy — is  it  not  rather  this  abominable  black- 
letter — this  elsewhere-discarded,  uncouth,  slowly  decaying 
text  known  as  the  German  Alphabet,  that  plucks  out  the 
bright  eyes  of  youth  and  bristles  the  gateways  of  your 
language  with  a  chevaux  de  frise  of  splintered  rubbish  ? 
Why  must  I  hesitate  whether  it  is  an  accident  of  the 
printer's  press  or  the  poor  quality  of  the  paper  that  makes 


Views  from  a  German  Spion.          393 

this  letter  a  "&"  or  a  u/"?  Why  must  I  halt  in  an 
emotion  or  a  thought  because  "  s"  and  "/""  are  so  nearly 
alike  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  I,  an  impulsive  American, 
accustomed  to  do  a  thing  first  and  reflect  upon  it  afterwards, 
must  grope  my  way  through  a  blind  alley  of  substantives 
and  adjectives,  only  to  find  the  verb  of  action  in  an  obscure 
corner,  without  ruining  my  eyesight  in  the  groping  ? 

But  I  dismiss  these  abstract  reflections  for  a  fresh  and 
active  resentment.  This  is  the  fifth  or  sixth  dog  that  has 
passed  my  Spion,  harnessed  to  a  small  barrow-like  cart  and 
tugging  painfully  at  a  burden  so  ludicrously  dispropor- 
tionate to  his  size,  that  it  would  seem  a  burlesque  but 
for  the  poor  dog's  sad  sincerity.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I 
have  the  barbarian's  fondness  for  dogs,  and  for  their  law- 
less, gentle,  loving  uselessness,  that  I  rebel  against  this 
unnatural  servitude.  It  seems  as  monstrous  as  if  a  child 
were  put  between  the  shafts  and  made  to  carry  burdens ; 
and  I  have  come  to  regard  those  men  and  women  who  in 
the  weakest  perfunctory  way  affect  to  aid  the  poor  brute,  by 
laying  idle  hands  on  the  barrow  behind,  as  I  would  unnatural 
parents.  Pegasus  harnessed  to  the  Thracian  herdman's 
plough  was  no  more  of  a  desecration.  I  fancy  the  poor  dog 
seems  to  feel  the  monstrosity  of  the  performance,  and,  in 
sheer  shame  for  his  master,  forgivingly  tries  to  assume  it  is 
play;  and  I  have  seen  a  little  "colley"  running  along, 
barking  and  endeavouring  to  leap  and  gambol  in  the  shafts, 
before  a  load  that  any  one  out  of  this  locality  would  have 
thought  the  direst  cruelty.  Nor  do  the  older  or  more 
powerful  dogs  seem  to  become  accustomed  to  it.  When 
his  cruel  taskmaster  halts  with  his  wares,  instantly  the  dog, 
either  by  sitting  down  in  his  harness,  or  crawling  over  the 
shafts,  or  by  some  unmistakable  dog-like  trick,  utterly 
scatters  any  such  delusion  of  even  the  habit  of  servitude. 
The  few  of  his  race  who  do  not  work  in  this  ducal  city  seem 


394  Views  from  a  German  Spion. 

to  have  lost  their  democratic  canine  sympathies,  and  look 
upon  him  with  something  of  that  indifferent  calm  with  which 
yonder  officer  eyes  the  road-mender  in  the  ditch  below  him. 
He  loses  even  the  characteristics  of  species — the  common 
cur  and  mastiff  look  alike  in  harness — the  burden  levels  all 
distinctions.  I  have  said  that  he  was  generally  sincere  in 
his  efforts.  I  recall  but  one  instance  to  the  contrary.  I 
remember  a  young  colley  who  first  attracted  my  attention 
by  his  persistent  barking.  Whether  he  did  this,  as  the 
ploughboy  whistled,  "for  want  of  thought,"  or  whether  it 
was  a  running  protest  against  his  occupation,  I  could  not 
determine,  until  one  day  I  noticed  that  in  barking  he  slightly 
threw  up  his  neck  and  shoulders,  and  that  the  two-wheeled 
barrow-like  vehicle  behind  him,  having  its  weight  evenly 
poised  on  the  wheels  by  the  trucks  in  the  hands  of  its  driver, 
enabled  him  by  this  movement  to  cunningly  throw  the 
centre  of  gravity  and  the  greater  weight  on  the  man — a  fact 
which  that  less  sagacious  brute  never  discerned.  Perhaps 
I  am  using  a  strong  expression  regarding  his  driver ;  it  may 
be  that  the  purely  animal  wants  of  the  dog,  in  the  way  of 
food,  care,  and  shelter,  are  more  bountifully  supplied  in 
servitude  than  in  freedom ;  becoming  a  valuable  and  useful 
property,  he  may  be  cared  for  and  protected  as  such — an 
odd  recollection  that  this  argument  had  been  used  forcibly 
in  regard  to  human  slavery  in  my  own  country  strikes  me 
here — but  his  picturesqueness  and  poetry  are  gone,  and  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that  the  people  who  have  lost  this 
gentle,  sympathetic,  characteristic  figure  from  their  domestic 
life  and  surroundings  have  not  acquired  an  equal  gain 
through  his  harsh  labours. 

To  the  American  eye  there  is  throughout  the  length  and 
breadth  of  this  foreign  city  no  more  notable  and  striking 
object  than  the  average  German  house  servant !  It  is  not 
that  she  has  passed  my  Spion  a  dozen  times  within  the  last 


Views  from  a  German  Spton.          395 

hour— for  here  she  is  messenger,  porter,  and  commissionnaire 
as  well  as  housemaid  and  cook — but  that  she  is  always  a 
phenomenon  to  the  American  stranger,  accustomed  to  be 
abused  in  his  own  country  by  his  foreign  Irish  handmaiden. 
Her  presence  is  as  refreshing  and  grateful  as  the  morning 
light,  and  as  inevitable  and  regular.  When  I  add  that  with 
the  novelty  of  being  well  served  is  combined  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  you  have  in  your  household  an  intelligent 
being,  who  reads  and  writes  with  fluency,  and  yet  does  not 
abstract  your  books  nor  criticise  your  literary  composition ; 
who  is  cleanly  clad,  and  neat  in  her  person,  without  the 
suspicion  of  having  borrowed  her  mistress's  dresses ;  who 
may  be  good-looking  without  the  least  imputation  of 
coquetry  or  addition  to  her  followers ;  who  is  obedient 
without  servility,  polite  without  flattery,  willing  and  replete 
with  supererogatory  performance  without  the  expectation  of 
immediate  pecuniary  return — what  wonder  that  the  American 
householder  translated  into  German  life  feels  himself  in  a 
new  Eden  of  domestic  possibilities  unrealised  in  any  other 
country,  and  begins  to  believe  in  a  present  and  future  of 
domestic  happiness !  What  wonder  that  the  American 
bachelor,  living  in  German  lodgings,  feels  half  the  terrors  of 
the  conjugal  future  removed,  and  rushes  madly  into  love — 
and  housekeeping !  What  wonder  that  I,  a  long-suffering 
and  patient  master,  who  have  been  served  by  the  reticent 
but  too  imitative  Chinaman ;  who  have  been  "  Massa  "  to 
the  childlike  but  untruthful  negro ;  who  have  been  the 
recipient  of  the  brotherly  but  uncertain  ministrations  of  the 
South  Sea  Islander,  and  have  been  proudly  disregarded  by 
the  American  Aborigine,  only  in  due  time  to  meet  the  fate 
of  my  countrymen  at  the  hands  of  Bridget  the  Celt — what 
wonder  that  I  gladly  seize  this  opportunity  to  sing  the  praises 
of  my  German  handmaid  !  Honour  to  thee,  Lenchen, 
wherever  thou  goest !  Heaven  bless  thee  in  thy  walks 


396  Views  from  a  German  Spton. 

abroad,  whether  with  that  tightly  booted  cavalryman  in  thy 
Sunday  gown  and  best,  or  in  blue  polka-dotted  apron  and 
bare  head  as  thou  trottest  nimbly  on  mine  errands — errands 
which  Bridget  O'Flaherty  would  scorn  to  undertake,  or 
undertaking  would  hopelessly  blunder  in !  Heaven  bless 
thee,  child,  in  thy  early  risings  and  in  thy  later  sittings,  at 
thy  festive  board,  overflowing  with  Esstg  and  Fett,  in  the 
mysteries  of  thy  Kuchen,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  Bier,  and  in 
thy  nightly  suffocations  beneath  mountainous  and  multitu- 
dinous feathers  !  Good,  honest,  simple-minded,  cheerful, 
duty-loving  Lenchen  !  Have  not  thy  brothers,  strong  and 
dutiful  as  thou,  lent  their  gravity  and  earnestness  to  sweeten 
and  strengthen  the  fierce  youth  of  the  republic  beyond  the 
seas,  and  shall  not  thy  children  inherit  the  broad  prairies 
that  still  wait  for  them,  and  discover  the  fatness  thereof, 
and  send  a  portion  transmuted  in  glittering  shekels  back  to 
thee! 

Almost  as  notable  are  the  children  whose  round  faces 
have  as  frequently  been  reflected  in  my  Spion.  Whether  it 
is  only  a  fancy  of  mine  that  the  average  German  retains 
longer  than  any  other  race  his  childish  simplicity  and  un- 
consciousness, or  whether  it  is  because  I  am  more  accus- 
tomed to  the  extreme  self-assertion  and  early  maturity  of 
American  children,  I  know  not ;  but  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  among  no  other  people  is  childhood  as  peren- 
nial, and  to  be  studied  in  such  characteristic  and  quaint 
and  simple  phases,  as  here.  The  picturesqueness  of 
Spanish  and  Italian  childhood  has  a  faint  suspicion  of  the 
pantomime  and  the  conscious  attitudinising  of  the  Latin 
races.  German  children  are  not  exuberant  or  volatile  ;  they 
are  serious — a  seriousness,  however,  not  to  be  confounded 
with  the  grave  reflectiveness  of  age,  but  only  the  abstract 
wonderment  of  childhood.  For  all  those  who  have  made 
a  loving  study  of  the  young  human  animal  will,  I  think, 


Views  from  a  German  Spion.          397 

admit  that  its  dominant  expression  is  gravity  and  not  play- 
fulness, and  will  be  satisfied  that  he  erred  pitifully  who 
first  ascribed  " light-heartedness  "  and  "thoughtlessness  "  as 
part  of  its  phenomena.  These  little  creatures  I  meet  upon 
the  street,  whether  in  quaint  wooden  shoes  and  short  woollen 
petticoats,  or  neatly  booted  and  furred,  with  school  knap- 
sacks jauntily  borne  upon  little  square  shoulders,  all  carry 
likewise  in  their  round  chubby  faces  their  profound  wonder- 
ment and  astonishment  at  the  big  busy  world  into  which 
they  have  so  lately  strayed.  If  I  stop  to  speak  with  this 
little  maid  who  scarcely  reaches  to  the  top-boots  of  yonder 
cavalry  officer,  there  is  less  of  bashful  self-consciousness  in 
her  sweet  little  face  than  of  grave  wonder  at  the  foreign 
accent  and  strange  ways  of  this  new  figure  obtruded  upon 
her  limited  horizon.  She  answers  honestly,  frankly,  prettily, 
but  gravely.  There  is  a  remote  possibility  that  I  might  bite, 
and  with  this  suspicion  plainly  indicated  in  her  round  blue 
eyes,  she  quietly  slips  her  little  red  hand  from  mine,  and 
moves  solemnly  away.  I  remember  once  to  have  stopped 
in  the  street  with  a  fair  countrywoman  of  mine  to  interrogate 
a  little  figure  in  sabots — the  one  quaint  object  in  the  long, 
formal  perspective  of  narrow,  gray  bastard  Italian  fagaded 
houses  of  a  Rhenish-German  Strasse.  The  sweet  little 
figure  wore  a  dark  blue  woollen  petticoat  that  came  to  its 
knees,  gray  woollen  stockings  covered  the  shapely  little 
limbs  below,  and  its  very  blonde  hair,  the  colour  of  a  bright 
dandelion,  was  tied  in  a  pathetic  little  knot  at  the  back  of 
its  round  head,  and  garnished  with  an  absurd  green  ribbon. 
Now,  although  this  gentlewoman's  sympathies  were  catholic 
and  universal,  unfortunately  their  expression  was  limited  to 
her  own  mother  tongue.  She  could  not  help  pouring  out 
upon  the  child  the  maternal  love  that  was  in  her  own 
womanly  breast,  nor  could  she  withhold  the  "  baby  talk  " 
through  which  it  was  expressed.  But,  alas !  it  was  in 


39  8  Views  from  a  German 

English.  Hence  ensued  a  colloquy,  tender  and  extravagant 
on  the  part  of  the  elder,  grave  and  wondering  on  the  part 
of  the  child.  But  the  lady  had  a  natural  feminine  desire 
for  reciprocity,  particularly  in  the  presence  of  our  emotion- 
scorning  sex,  and  as  a  last  resource  she  emptied  the  small 
silver  of  her  purse  into  the  lap  of  the  coy  maiden.  It  was 
a  declaration  of  love,  susceptible  of  translation  at  the  nearest 
cake-shop.  But  the  little  maid,  whose  dress  and  manner 
certainly  did  not  betray  an  habitual  disregard  of  gifts  of 
this  kind,  looked  at  the  coin  thoughtfully,  but  not  regret- 
fully. Some  innate  sense  of  duty,  equally  strong  with  that 
of  being  polite  to  strangers,  filled  her  consciousness.  With 
the  utterly  unexpected  remark  that  her  father  did  not  allow 
her  to  take  money,  the  queer  little  figure  moved  away,  leav- 
ing the  two  Americans  covered  with  mortification.  The 
rare  American  child  who  could  have  done  this,  would  have 
done  it  with  an  attitude.  This  little  German  bourgeoise  did 
it  naturally.  I  do  not  intend  to  rush  to  the  deduction  that 
German  children  of  the  lower  classes  habitually  refuse  pecu- 
niary gratuities;  indeed,  I  remember  to  have  wickedly 
suggested  to  my  companion  that,  to  avoid  impoverishment 
in  a  foreign  land,  she  should  not  repeat  the  story  nor  the 
experiment;  but  I  simply  offer  it  as  a  fact — and  to  an 
American  at  home  or  abroad  a  novel  one. 

I  owe  to  these  little  figures  another  experience  quite  as 
strange.  It  was  at  the  close  of  a  dull  winter's  day — a  day 
from  which  all  out-of-door  festivity  seemed  to  be  naturally 
excluded ;  there  was  a  baleful  promise  of  snow  in  the  air, 
and  a  dismal  reminiscence  of  it  underfoot,  when  suddenly, 
in  striking  contrast  with  the  dreadful  bleakness  of  the  street, 
a  half-dozen  children,  masked  and  bedizened  with  cheap 
ribbons,  spangles,  and  embroidery,  flashed  across  my  Spion. 
I  was  quick  to  understand  the  phenomenon.  It  was  the 
Carnival  season  !  Only  the  night  before  I  had  been  to  the 


Views  from  a  German  Spion.  399 

great  opening  masquerade — a  famous  affair,  for  which  this 
art-loving  city  is  noted,  and  to  which  strangers  are  drawn 
from  all  parts  of  the  Continent.  I  remember  to  have 
wondered  if  the  pleasure-loving  German  in  America  had 
not  broken  some  of  his  conventional  .shackles  in  emigration, 
for  certainly  I  had  found  the  Carnival  balls  of  the  "  Lieder 
Kranz  Society "  in  New  York,  although  decorous  and 
fashionable  to  the  American  taste,  to  be  wild  dissipations 
compared  with  the  practical  seriousness  of  this  native 
performance,  and  I  hailed  the  presence  of  these  children  in 
the  open  street  as  a  promise  of  some  extravagance,  real, 
untrammelled,  and  characteristic.  I  seized  my  hat  and — 
overcoat, — a  dreadful  incongruity  to  the  spangles  that  had 
whisked  by — and  followed  the  vanishing  figures  round  the 
corner.  Here  they  were  reinforced  by  a  dozen  men  and 
women,  fantastically  but  not  expensively  arrayed,  looking 
not  unlike  the  supernumeraries  of  some  provincial  opera 
troupe.  Following  the  crowd,  which  already  began  to  pour 
in  from  the  side-streets,  in  a  few  moments  I  was  in  the 
broad  grove-like  alike,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  masquer aders. 

I  remember  to  have  been  told  that  this  was  a  characteristic 
annual  celebration  of  the  lower  classes,  anticipated  with 
eagerness  and  achieved  with  difficulty ;  indeed,  often  only 
through  the  alternative  of  pawning  clothing  and  furniture 
to  provide  the  means  for  this  ephemeral  transformation.  I 
remember  being  warned  also  that  the  buffoonery  was  coarse, 
and  some  of  the  slang  hardly  fit  for  "ears  polite."  But  I 
am  afraid  that  I  was  not  shocked  at  the  prodigality  of  these 
poor  people,  who  purchased  a  holiday  on  such  hard  condi- 
tions ;  and  as  to  the  coarseness  of  the  performance,  /  felt 
that  I  certainly  might  go  where  these  children  could. 

At  first  the  masquerading  figures  appeared  to  be  mainly 
composed  of  young  girls  of  ages  varying  from  nine  to 
eighteen.  Their  costumes — if  what  was  often  only  the 


4oo  Views  from  a  German  Spion. 

addition  of  a  broad,  bright-coloured  stripe  to  the  hem  of  a 
short  dress  could  be  called  a  costume — were  plain,  and 
seemed  to  indicate  no  particular  historical  epoch  or  char- 
acter. A  general  .suggestion  of  the  peasant's  holiday  attire 
was  dominant  in  all  the  costumes.  Everybody  was  closely 
masked.  All  carried  a  short,  gaily  striped  b&ton  of  split 
wood,  called  a  " Pritsche"  which,  when  struck  sharply  on 
the  back  or  shoulders  of  some  spectator  or  sister  masker, 
emitted  a  clattering,  rasping  sound.  To  wander  hand  in 
hand  down  this  broad  allee,  to  strike  almost  mechanically 
and  often  monotonously  at  each  other  with  their  batons, 
seemed  to  be  the  extent  of  that  wild  dissipation.  The 
crowd  thickened  :  young  men  with  false  noses,  hideous 
masks,  cheap  black  or  red  cotton  dominoes,  soldiers  in 
uniform,  crowded  past  each  other  up  and  down  the  prome- 
nade, all  carrying  a  Pritsche,  and  exchanging  blows  with 
each  other,  but  always  with  the  same  slow  seriousness  of 
demeanour,  which,  with  their  silence,  gave  the  performance 
the  effect  of  a  religious  rite.  Occasionally  some  one 
shouted  ;  perhaps  a  dozen  young  fellows  broke  out  in  song ; 
but  the  shout  was  provocative  of  nothing,  the  song  faltered 
as  if  the  singers  were  frightened  at  their  own  voices.  One 
blithe  fellow,  with  a  bear's  head  on  his  fur-capped  shoulders, 
began  to  dance,  but  on  the  crowd  stopping  to  observe  him 
seriously,  he  apparently  thought  better  of  it,  and  slipped 
away.  Nevertheless,  the  solemn  beating  of  Pritsche  over 
each  other's  backs  went  on.  I  remember  that  I  was 
followed  the  whole  length  of  the  alike  by  a  little  girl  scarcely 
twelve  years  old,  in  a  bright  striped  skirt  and  black  mask, 
who  from  time  to  time  struck  me  over  the  shoulders  with 
?  regularity  and  sad  persistency  that  was  peculiarly  irresis- 
tible to  me ;  the  more  so,  as  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
it  was  not  half  as  amusing  to  herself.  Once  only  did  the 
ordinary  brusque  gallantry  of  the  Carnival  spirit  show  itself. 


Views  from  a  German  Spion.          401 

A  man  with  an  enormous  pair  of  horns,  like  a  half-civilised 
satyr,  suddenly  seized  a  young  girl  and  endeavoured  to  kiss 
her.  A  slight  struggle  ensued,  in  which  I  fancied  I  detected 
in  the  girl's  face  and  manner  the  confusion  and  embarrass- 
ment of  one  who  was  obliged  to  overlook,  or  seem  to 
accept,  a  familiarity  that  was  distasteful,  rather  than  be 
laughed  at  for  prudishness  or  ignorance ;  but  the  incident 
was  exceptional.  Indeed,  it  was  particularly  notable  to  my 
American  eyes  to  find  such  decorum  where  there  might 
easily  have  been  the  greatest  license.  I  am  afraid  that  an 
American  mob  of  this  class  would  have  scarcely  been  as 
orderly  and  civil  under  the  circumstances.  They  might 
have  shown  more  humour,  but  there  would  have  probably 
been  more  effrontery ;  they  might  have  been  more  exube- 
rant, they  would  certainly  have  been  drunker.  I  did  not 
notice  a  single  masquerader  unduly  excited  by  liquor — 
there  was  not  a  word  or  motion  from  the  lighter  sex  that 
could  have  been  construed  into  an  impropriety.  There 
was  something  almost  pathetic  to  me  in  this  attempt  to 
wrest  gaiety  and  excitement  out  of  these  dull  materials — to 
fight  against  the  blackness  of  that  wintry  sky,  and  the  stub- 
born hardness  of  the  frozen  soil,  with  these  painted  sticks 
of  wood — to  mock  the  dreariness  of  their  poverty  with 
these  flaunting  raiments.  It  did  not  seem  like  them,  or, 
rather,  consistent  with  my  idea  of  them.  There  was  incon- 
gruity deeper  than  their  bizarre  externals ;  a  half-melancholy, 
half-crazy  absurdity  in  their  action,  the  substitution  of  a 
grim  spasmodic  frenzy  for  levity,  that  rightly  or  wrongly 
impressed  me.  When  the  increasing  gloom  of  the  evening 
made  their  figures  undistinguishable,  I  turned  into  the  first 
cross-street.  As  I  lifted  my  hat  to  my  persistent  young 
friend  with  the  Pritsche,  I  fancied  she  looked  as  relieved  as 
myself.  If,  however,  I  was  mistaken — if  that  child's  path- 
way through  life  be  strewn  with  rosy  recollections  of  the 
VOL.  in.  2  c 


4O2  Views  from  a  German  Spion. 

unresisting  back  of  the  stranger  American — if  any  burden, 
O  Gretchen,  laid  upon  thy  young  shoulders  be  lighter  for 
the  trifling  one  thou  didst  lay  upon  mine,  know  then  that  I 
too  am  content. 

And  so,  day  by  day  has  my  Spion  reflected  the  various 
changing  forms  of  life  before  it.  It  has  seen  the  first  flush 
of  spring  in  the  broad  atlee,  when  the  shadows  of  tiny 
leaflets  overhead  were  beginning  to  chequer  the  cool,  square 
flagstones.  It  has  seen  the  glare  and  fulness  of  summer 
sunshine  and  shadow,  the  flying  of  November  gold  through 
the  air,  the  gaunt  limbs  and  stark,  rigid,  death-like  white- 
ness of  winter.  It  has  seen  children  in  their  queer,  wicker 
baby-carriages,  old  men  and  women,  and  occasionally  that 
grim  usher  of  death,  in  sable  cloak  and  cocked  hat — a 
baleful  figure  for  the  wandering  invalid  tourist  to  meet — 
who  acts  as  undertaker  for  this  ducal  city,  and  marshals 
the  last  melancholy  procession.  I  well  remember  my  first 
meeting  with  this  ominous  functionary.  It  was  an  early 
autumnal  morning ;  so  early  that  the  long  formal  perspec- 
tive of  the  allee,  and  the  decorous,  smooth,  vanishing  lines 
of  cream-and-gray  fronted  houses  were  unrelieved  by  a 
single  human  figure.  Suddenly  a  tall,  black  spectre,  as 
theatrical  and  as  unreal  as  the  painted  scenic  distance,  turned 
the  corner  from  a  cross-street  and  moved  slowly  towards 
me.  A  long  black  cloak,  falling  from  its  shoulders  to  its 
feet,  floated  out  on  either  side  like  sable  wings,  a  cocked 
hat  trimmed  with  crape  and  surmounted  by  a  hearse-like 
feather  covered  a  passionless  face,  and  its  eyes,  looking 
neither  left  nor  right,  were  fixed  fatefully  upon  some  distant 
goal.  Stranger  as  I  was  to  this  Continental  ceremonial 
figure,  there  was  no  mistaking  his  functions  as  the  grim 
messenger  knocking  "  with  equal  foot  "  on  every  door  ;  and, 
indeed,  so  perfectly  did  he  act  and  look  his  role,  that  there 
was  nothing  ludicrous  in  the  extraordinary  spectacle.  Facial 


Views  from  a  German  Spion.  403 

expression  and  dignity  of  bearing  were  perfect ;  the  whole 
man  seemed  saturated  with  the  accepted  sentiment  of  his 
office.  Recalling  the  half-confused  and  half-conscious 
ostentatious  hypocrisy  of  the  American  sexton,  the  shame- 
less absurdities  of  the  English  mutes  and  mourners,  I  could 
not  help  feeling  that,  if  it  were  demanded  that  Grief  and 
Fate  should  be  personified,  it  were  better  that  it  should  be 
well  done.  And  it  is  one  observation  of  my  Spion  that  this 
sincerity  and  belief  is  the  characteristic  of  all  Continental 
functionaries. 

It  is  possible  that  my  Spion  has  shown  me  little  that  is 
really  characteristic  of  the  people,  and  the  few  observations 
I  have  made  I  offer  only  as  an  illustration  of  the  impressions 
made  upon  two-thirds  of  American  strangers  in  the  larger 
towns  of  Germany.  Assimilation  goes  on  more  rapidly  than 
we  are  led  to  imagine.  As  I  have  seen  my  friend  Karl, 
fresh  and  awkward  in  his  first  uniform,  lounging  later  down 
the  allee  with  the  blase  listlessness  of  a  full-blown  militaire,  so 
I  have  seen  American  and  English  residents  gradually  lose 
their  peculiarities,  and  melt  and  merge  into  the  general  mass. 
Returning  to  my  Spion  after  a  flying  trip  through  Belgium 
and  France,  as  I  look  down  the  long  perspective  of  the 
Strasse,  I  am  conscious  of  recalling  the  same  style  of 
architecture  and  humanity  at  Aachen,  Brussels,  Lille,  and 
Paris ;  and  am  inclined  to  believe  that,  even  as  I  would 
have  met  in  a  journey  of  the  same  distance  through  a 
parallel  of  the  same  latitude  in  America  a  greater  diversity 
of  type  and  character,  and  a  more  distinct  flavour  of 
locality,  even  so  would  I  have  met  a  more  heterogeneous 
and  picturesque  display  from  a  club  window  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  New  York,  or  Montgomery  Street,  San  Francisco. 


(    404    ) 


©cftroetier* 


WHEN  we  heard  that  Peter  Schroeder  had  "  struck  it  rich," 
or,  to  paraphrase  the  local  idiom,  had  that  morning  taken 
fifty  thousand  dollars  from  a  suddenly  developed  "  pocket  " 
in  his  claim,  only  one  expression,  that  of  sincere  con- 
gratulation, went  up  from  Spanish  Gulch.  It  would,  per- 
haps, be  wrong  to  say  that  this  feeling  arose  from  any 
instinctive  perception  of  his  fitness  for  good  fortune,  or 
even  of  his  practical  deserts.  Spanish  Gulch  was  seldom 
moved  by  such  delicate  ethics.  But  he  had  always  been  a 
lovable  figure  in  its  rude  life.  His  quaint,  serious  good 
nature  ;  his  touching  belief  in  ourselves  as  representative 
Americans,  and  the  legitimate  results  of  those  free  insitutions 
he  admired  so  in  theory;  his  innocent  adoption  of  our 
slang,  and  often  of  our  vices,  which  made  even  an  oath  or 
vulgarism  from  his  lips  as  harmless  and  irresponsible  as 
from  a  child's  —  all  this  gave  "  Dutch  Pete,"  as  he  loved  to 
be  called,  a  certain  place  in  our  affections  which  no  stroke 
of  enviable  good  fortune  could  imperil.  More  than  this,  I 
think  we  took  a  great  satisfaction  in  believing  that  in  some 
way  we  were  part  of  that  Providence  which  had  so  blessed 
him.  A  few,  I  think,  intimated  as  much.  "  I'm  so  glad  I 
allus  told  the  old  man  to  stick  to  that  claim,"  said  one,  with 
an  air  of  wearied  well-doing;  "I  allus  kept  him  up  to  the 
rack,  and  I  reckon  he  now  sees  the  benefit  of  my  four  years' 
experience  in  these  parts.'1  "  Only  yesterday,"  said  another, 


Peter  Schroeder.  405 

"  I  lent  him  a  pick,  seem'  his  was  rather  shaky, — and  they 
say  thar's  luck  in  old  tools  in  green  hands." 

A  majority  of  the  camp  called  upon  him  at  once.  The 
result  of  their  visit  satisfied  them.  Unchanged,  unaltered 
by  good  fortune,  Peter  Schroeder  welcomed  them  in  his  old 
simple  way,  and  in  that  old  simple,  blundering  slang  which, 
to  the  delight  of  the  camp,  he  was  pleased  to  accept  as 
idiomatic  American  speech.  He  stood  beside  a  table 
covered  with  a  vivid  red  blanket,  which  displayed  from  this 
vantage  a  huge  fragment  of  decomposed  quartz,  dazzlingly 
streaked  and  honeycombed  with  the  precious  metal.  Above 
it  hung  a  placard — the  gift  of  a  native  humorist — bearing 
the  legend,  "  Welcome,  little  stranger." 

"  Come  in,  poys,  and  tondt  pe  pashful.  Sits  doun  from 
de  front !  De  elefant  now  goes  round  mit  you.  De  pand 
pegins  to  play.  Dare  she  ish — look  at  it,  shentlemans  ! 
You  dakes  your  money  and  you  bays  your  schoice.  Ha  ! 
ha!  Vot  for  a  strike  ist  dot?  Eh?  How  high  is  dot, 
poys  ?  " 

When  the  laugh*  at  his  characteristic  version  of  a  slang 
phrase  in  the  last  sentence  had  subsided,  some  one  asked 
him  what  he  intended  to  do,  now  that  he  was  a  rich 
man. 

"Well,  poys,  dot's  shoost  it.  I  goes  to  Washington  first. 
I  looks  round  and  maype  I  finds  Dick  Unterwoots,  and  I 
goes  mit  him  mit  de  army — and  I  fights  a  little  for  de 
Union."  The  Dick  Underwood  here  alluded  to  had 
recently  exchanged  his  long-handled  Californian  shovel  for 
the  sword,  and  was  now,  in  this  last  year  of  the  Civil  War, 
a  colonel. 

"But  you'll  get  killed,  Pete,  and  what's  the  good  of 
your  money  then  ?  " 

"So  !  I  sends  it  first  to  my  fader  and  moder  in 
Shermany." 


406  Peter  Schroeder. 

"But  it's  none  of  your  funeral,  Pete.  You're  only  a 
blank  Dutchman." 

"Eh— a  Dootchman!  Veil,  vot's  Sigel,  eh?  Vot's 
Rosenkrans,  eh  ?  Vot's  Heintzleman  ?  Vot's  Carl  Schurz, 
eh?" 

In  vain  did  Spanish  Gulch  point  out  the  egregious  folly 
of  a  rich  alien  engaging  in  a  domestic  quarrel ;  Peter  was 
firm  in  his  determination.  And  Spanish  Gulch,  having  by 
experience  learned  to  respect  his  dull  obstinacy  in  those 
matters  of  his  private  conscience  which  did  not  directly 
interfere  with  his  duties  to  the  camp,  yielded  the  point 
gracefully,  and  gave  him — in  one  farewell  debauch — their 
half-maledictory  valediction. 

Peter  Schroeder  was  as  good  as  his  word.  Within  three 
weeks  he  entered  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  and  served 
until  the  Richmond  surrender.  It  is  to  be  recorded  that, 
although  faithful,  loyal,  honest,  and  brave,  only  a  sergeant's 
chevron  marked  his  advancement.  Perhaps  he  was  not 
ambitious ;  possibly  old  habits  of  military  servitude  kept 
him  out  of  the  political  manoauvrings  of  these  citizen 
bayonets ;  perhaps  he  had  no  personal  friends  at  Washing- 
ton ;  perhaps  he  was  a  little  dull.  But  it  is  to  be  also 
recorded  that  his  dogged  devotion  to  his  theories  of  the 
great  Republican  principles  for  which  he  was  contending 
never  faltered  amidst  the  free  and  outspoken  criticism  of 
superiors  and  general  grumbling  of  these  citizen  camps. 
Malcontents  feared  him,  even  good  patriots  quite  misunder- 
stood his  sentimental  convictions — he  was  a  confusion  to 
his  comrades  as  often  as  he  was  to  the  enemy.  I  close  his 
brief  military  record  with  a  story  still  extant,  but  until  now 
imperfect  in  its  details.  A  gallant  Confederate  officer,  and 
a  descendant  of  the  Virginian  founders  of  the  Republic, 
found  himself,  after  the  shattered  onset  of  a  brave  but 
unsuccessful  charge,  lying  wounded  and  crippled  before  the 


Peter  Schroeder.  407 

earthwork  of  a  battery,  deserted  by  his  men  and  confronted 
only  by  the  guns  of  his  adversary,  and  the  flag  his  ancestors 
had  created  flaunting  in  his  face !  "I  looked  up,  gentle- 
men," he  said,  "and  the  sergeant  of  the  Yankee  battery 
saw  me,  and  at  the  risk  of  his  life  crept  down  and  dragged 
me  into  the  works.  He  was  a  German  ;  so  I  felt  thankful 
that  I  wasn't  under  obligations  to  a  Yankee.  But  what  did 
he  do?  Why,  gentlemen,  this  d — d  Dutchman — who 
couldn't  speak  the  language  plainly — who  hadn't,  I  solemnly 
believe,  being  a  fortnight  in  America,  he  looks  down  at  me, 
and,  pointing  to  my  crippled  leg,  says,  "  Aha  !  dot's  wot 
you  gets  for  fightin'  against  de  old  flag  /  "  If  a  mule  had 
kicked  me  I  couldn't  have  felt  meaner."  The  mule  that 
had  kicked  this  gallant  gentleman  was  Peter  Schroeder. 
But  it  was  a  Parthian  kick.  A  few  days  later  he  was  honour- 
ably discharged,  drew  his  back-pay  and  bounty,  and  sailed 
for  Germany. 

Fifteen  years  had  elapsed.  Peter  Schroeder,  much 
stouter  and  quite  bald,  sat  in  that  inevitable  latticed 
summer-house  which  is  one  of  the  sacred  outdoor  Penates 
of  every  Rhenish  householder,  and  seriously  sipped  his 
Moselle  wine.  He  was  not  thinking  that  his  curiously 
wrought  iron  garden-chair  was  not  as  comfortable  as  an 
American  rocker  or  armchair — he  was  long  past  that  grum- 
bling ;  he  was  not  thinking  the  table  too  high  and  insecure 
for  his  feet  to  rest  on,  for  Frau  Schroeder  had  in  the  first 
year  of  his  married  life  interdicted  that  American  attitude 
of  reflection  and  bibulous  enjoyment.  He  was  not  looking 
at  the  inevitable  little  fountain,  whose  stone  basin  suggested 
a  hasty  provision  against  a  leak  from  some  invisible  water- 
cask,  nor  at  the  inevitable  little  grotto — a  child's  playground 
of  bright  shells  and  pebbles  artistically  arranged  by  a  grown- 
up player.  None  of  these,  nor  even  the  statue  of  Germania 


408  Peter  Schroeder. 

looking  like  Lorelei  with  a  helmet,  nor  of  Lorelei  looking 
like  Germania  with  a  harp,  nor  even  of  a  bust  of  the  good 
old  Emperor,  looking  always  like  his  own  august  self,  and 
regarding  reprehensible  mythology  with  fatherly  forbearance, 
attracted  Peter's  attention.  His  serious  blue  eyes  were 
filmy  and  abstracted ;  the  pinky  red  of  his  round  cheeks 
was  a  little  deeper  for  that  digestive  glow  known  in  the  rich 
vernacular  of  his  analytical  nation  as  "  Ess  fleber ;"  his 
respiration  was  slightly  stertorous,  and  his  pipe  had  gone 
out  idly  in  his  hand — Peter  was  dreaming. 

Of  the  Past.  Of  the  fifteen  long  years  that  had  flown 
since  he  arrived,  almost  a  stranger,  in  his  own  land ;  of  his 
reception  by  his  few  old  friends — a  reception  given  to  a 
new  Peter  whom  they  had  evidently  never  known ;  of  the 
joy  of  his  old  parents — a  joy  tempered  with  a  kind  of  awe 
at  his  fortune  and  his  novel  ideas  and  heresies ;  of  the 
matchmaking  of  his  parents  that  ended  in  his  betrothal  to 
the  well-born  but  slightly  dowered  Fraulein  Von  Hummel ; 
of  the  marriage  that  smoothed  those  parents'  dying  pillow, 
but  left  Peter's  bridal  couch  lonelier  than  before ;  of  his 
relegation  to  a  new  life  to  which  he  was  stranger  than  ever. 

Of  the  monotony  of  those  days,  of  the  monotony  of  all 
outward  signs  and  symbols,  band-playing,  concert-singing, 
picture-viewing,  troops  parading  night  and  morning  before 
his  window,  of  festivals,  of  fetes,  of  celebrations  of  all  con- 
ceivable things  to  celebrate, — all  alike — uniform,  theatrical, 
and  unreal,  and  yet,  too,  all  established  with  precedent, 
and  often  reinforced  with  the  serene  presence  of  hereditary 
greatness.  Of  the  monotony  of  his  home  life;  of  the 
monotony  of  five  meals  a  day  seriously  considered  and 
dutifully  performed  ;  of  betrothals  and  love-making  under 
the  parental  and  public  eye ;  of  sentimental  hand-shakings 
and  speech-makings  to  bride  and  bridegroom,  and  the 
pointed  obtrusion  of  domestic  and  personal  affairs  before 


Peter  Schroeder.  409 

the  world,  as  shown  in  the  sentimental  public  advertisement 
of  such  conventionalities  as  births,  deaths,  and  marriages. 

Of  the  great  war  with  France,  which  for  ever  estopped 
his  voluble  reminiscences  of  his  former  transatlantic  military 
career,  by  leaving  him  no  longer  an  authority  in  slaughter 
and  gunpowder,  rekindled  his  old  ardour  for  Der  Vaterland, 
dragged  him  into  its  seething  vortex,  and  left  him,  at  last, 
stranded  in  his  own  town,  with  more  parading,  more  rattle 
of  drums,  more  celebrations  to  celebrate,  more  precedents, 
and,  in  fact,  more  settled  convictions  to  combat  than  ever. 

A  clap  of  thunder  recalled  his  wandering  senses.  Look- 
ing up,  he  saw  above  the  lindens  that  stood  in  his  garden 
a  blue-black  velvety  cloud.  It  was  the  natural  climax  of  a 
sultry  summer's  day;  but  Peter's  thoughts  were  so  dark 
that  it  seemed  to  be  as  ominous  as  the  cloud  that  rose 
above  the  Arabian  fisherman's  jar  when  the  awful  seal  of 
Solomon  was  broken.  In  such  a  mood  Faust  received  a 
visit  from  Mephistopheles,  and  at  this  moment,  at  his  elbow, 
a  servant  was  presenting  a  card. 

"  Mr.  John  Folinsbee,"  read  Peter  aloud. 

"  A  gentleman  and  four  ladies,"  explained  the  servant 

Peter's  mental  processes  were  slowly  evolving  something. 

" Strangers,"  suggested  the  maiden ;  "I  think  Ameri- 
cans." 

The  magical  note  of  nationality  sent  the  good-hearted 
Peter  into  his  drawing-room,  pleased,  yet  embarrassed  as  a 
schoolgirl. 

Certainly  no  weakness  of  this  kind  was  visible  in  his 
guests.  Three  of  them,  young  ladies,  were  scattered  about 
the  room ;  one  at  the  piano,  one  at  the  centre  table,  look- 
ing over  a  book  of  photographs,  and  another  beside  the 
jardiniere,  from  which  she  had  already  extracted  the  rose- 
bud suited  to  her  complexion.  On  the  sofa  another,  and 
possibly  the  elder,  if  a  certain  air  of  lassitude  and  ennui 


410  Peter  Schroeder. 

were  a  criterion  of  age,  had  gracefully  composed  herself. 
All  were  pretty,  all  were  graceful,  all  were  exceedingly  well- 
dressed,  and  all  were,  to  Peter's  half-pleasure,  half-embar- 
rassment, very  much  at  home  ! 

They  acknowledged  his  smile  of  welcome  by  an  inquiring 
glance  towards  a  gentleman  who  at  that  moment  was  en- 
gaged in  examining  a  barometer  at  the  window.  He  dis- 
engaged himself  from  his  meteorological  inquest,  came  for- 
ward with  easy  good-humour,  and  held  out  his  hand.  He 
was  a  tall,  well-formed  man,  of  Peter's  own  age,  but  looked, 
like  the  rest  of  his  party,  as  if  he  were  a  thousand  years 
younger. 

"Peter  Schroeder,  I  reckon?" 

Peter's  face  beamed  with  delight  as  he  shook  the  out- 
stretched hand  warmly. 

"Ja  !  dot's  schoost  it— Peter  Schroeder." 

"  You  don't  remember  me?"  continued  the  stranger,  with 
a  slight  smile.  "  I  never  saw  you  but  once,  and  that  was 
at  Spanish  Gulch,  the  day  you  made  that  strike  !  I  came 
over  from  Dry  Creek  with  the  boys,  and  went  up  to  your 
cabin.  How  are  you,  old  man?  You're  looking  as  if  your 
grub  agreed  with  you." 

Peter,  still  shaking  his  hand,  said  in  his  half-forgotten 
English,  that  he  knew  him  "  from  de  voorst  ! " 

"  When  I  left  California,  a  month  ago,  I  promised  the 
boys  I'd  hunt  you  up,"  continued  the  stranger.  "  I  stopped 
at  Cologne  yesterday.  Heard  you  were  here.  Came  up 
on  a  sort  of  pasear  with  the  ladies.  Let  me  introduce 
them.  Rosey  Tibbets,  Grace  Tibbets,  Minnie  Tibbets, 
Mrs.  Johnson." 

Peter,  always  a  bashful  man,  under  this  presentation  of 
bright  eyes  and  Parisian  toilettes  could  only  stammer  out 
his  regrets  that  the  Frau  Schroeder  was  that  day  absent- 
visiting  a  soul-friend — and  was  not  there  to  welcome  them. 


Peter  Sckroeder.  411 

Mrs.  Johnson,  looking  up  from  the  sofa,  would  have  so 
liked  to  see  her ;  Miss  Rosey,  looking  up  from  the  photo- 
graph-book, would  have  so  liked  to  see  her ;  Miss  Grace, 
at  the  piano,  and  Miss  Minnie,  with  the  delicate  petals  of  a 
rose  against  her  pink  nostrils,  would  have  both  so  liked  to 
see  her.  Indeed,  the  only  one  present  who  might  not  have 
participated  in  this  chorus  was  poor  Peter  himself,  who, 
despite  his  previous  polite  assurance,  felt  a  vague  relief  at 
his  wife's  absence.  Conscious  of  this  weakness,  he  insisted 
the  more  upon  plying  them  with  various  refreshments,  and 
"  showing  them  the  house." 

Several  American  improvements  which  he  had  intro- 
duced, to  the  wonder  and  distrust  of  his  neighbours,  failed, 
however,  to  impress  his  visitors.  The  ladies  regarded  them 
languidly :  "  You've  got  the  old-fashioned  kind.  We  use 
only  the  self-acting  patent  now,"  they  said.  "  You're  behind 
the  age,  old  man,"  was' Folinsbee's  less  courteous  comment. 
Peter,  a  trifle  mortified,  nevertheless  kept  up  his  unfailing 
good-humour,  and  finally  stopped  before  the  door  of  a 
small  chamber  with  a  confident  air.  "  I  shows  you  some- 
dings  now  dot  you  can't  imbrove  on — ha  !  Somedings  vot 
you  and  us  fellus  knows.  Dot  is  mine  own  brivate  abart- 
ment.  Vot  for  Americans  is  dot  ?  " 

As  he  spoke  he  flung  open  the  door,  and  disclosed  a 
small  room,  with  an  American  flag  festooned  over  the 
window.  On  one  side  of  the  wall  hung  a  portrait  of 
Abraham  Lincoln ;  on  the  other,  the  blue  cap  and  blouse 
of  a  sergeant  in  the  American  army. 

Peter  paused  to  permit  the  patriotic  feelings  of  his 
visitors  their  fullest  vent.  To  his  surprise,  only  a  dead 
silence  followed  this  national  exhibition.  Peter,  doubtful 
of  their  eyesight,  drew  aside  the  window-curtains,  and 
ostentatiously  wiped  the  portrait  of  the  martyred  President. 

«  Dot  is  Lincoln." 


412  Peter  Schroeder. 

"Chromo?"  asked  Folinsbee. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Peter,  a  little  crestfallen. 

"The  engravings  don't  make  him  quite  so  ugly,"  said 
Mrs.  Johnson,  "  although  he  was  an  ugly  man." 

"Awful,"  said  Miss  Rosey. 

Peter  smiled  meekly.  "  He  wasn't  bretty  as  a  womans," 
he  said,  with  an  embarrassed  attempt  at  gallantry,  followed 
by  an  apoplectic  blush. 

"  What's  that  ?  "  asked  Folinsbee,  indicating  the  cap  and 
blouse  with  his  cane.  "  Some  of  your  mining  duds  from 
Spanish  Gulch  ?  " 

"  Dot  ?  "  gasped  Peter.     "  Dot  is  mine  uniforms  ! " 

Folinsbee  laughed.  "  I  thought  it  might  be  some  of  that 
damaged  clothing  condemned  by  the  War  Department,  and 
sold  at  auction  there.  The  boys  bought  up  a  lot  of  it 
cheap  to  knock  around  in  the  tunnels  with.  Yes,  I 
remember  now.  The  fellers  had  a  mighty  good  joke  on 
your  goin'  into  the  War  when  you  hadn't  any  call  to  go." 

"  Which  side  were  you  on,  Mr.  Schroeder  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Johnson,  with  a  polite  affectation  of  interest. 

"  Which  side  ?  "  echoed  Peter  in  vague  astonishment. 
"  I  fights  mit  de  Union." 

"  I  had  an  uncle  in  the  Federal  army,  and  two  cousins 
in  the  Confederate  service,"  observed  Miss  Minnie  lan- 
guidly. 

"Dey  wos  good  fellers  on  the  oder  side  too,"  hastily 
interpolated  the  kind-hearted  Peter. 

"  They  came  home  awfully  sick  of  it — all  of  'em,"  con- 
tinued Miss  Minnie.  "  I'm  sure  it  was  dreadfully  horrid." 

"  Awful,"  said  Rosey. 

Meanwhile  they  had  backed  out  of  the  room  listlessly, 
and  were  clearly  indicating  that  they  were  awaiting  Peter's 
further  movements.  He  closed  the  door  with  an  embar- 
rassing laugh  that  was  half  a  sigh,  and  led  the  way  back  to 


Peter  Schroeder.  413 

the  drawing-room.  On  the  way  Miss  Rosey  stopped  to 
admire  the  photograph  of  a  stout,  good-humoured  gentle- 
man in  a  gorgeous  hussar  uniform. 

"Who  is  this?" 

"  Dot  is  me — myself,"  said  Peter — "  wen  I  was  in  de  war 
mit  France,"  he  added  apologetically.  To  his  surprise, 
the  ladies  gathered  before  it  with  an  appearance  of  interest ; 
and  Mrs.  Johnson  remarked  archly  that  the  uniform  was 
very  becoming. 

"Why  didn't  you  show  the  girls  that  first  1"  asked 
Folinsbee,  taking  Peter  aside.  "Why  did  you  trot  out 
those  old  army  rags  of  yours?  Don't  you  know  they're 
just  crazy  after  these  foreign  uniforms  ?  Think  there's  a 
count  or  baron  inside  of  'em  always.  By  the  way,"  he 
asked  suddenly,  "  you  ain't  anything  o'  that  sort  now,  are 
you?" 

Peter  shook  his  head  blankly,  but  found  himself  blushing 
as  he  thought  of  his  wife's  uniformed  relations. 

"Didn't  get  anything  of  that  kind  for  your  services?" 
continued  Folinsbee.  "  Nary  ribbon — medals — eh  ?  " 

"  I  get  de  '  Iron  Cross,' "  said  Peter  mildly. 

"  Humph  !  Iron  Cross  !  Couldn't  afford  a  gold  one, 
eh  ?  Not  much  of  that  lying  round  loose  here  in  these 
parts?" 

Too  modest  to  explain  further,  too  delicate  to  expose 
what  he  conceived  to  be  the  natural  ignorance  of  his  foreign 
visitor,  but  utterly  oblivious  of  the  mischief  in  that  foreign 
visitor's  eye,  Peter  endeavoured  to  turn  the  subject  by 
asking  him  to  bring  the  ladies  to  dine  with  him  the  next 
day. 

"  I  reckon  not,  old  man,"  said  Folinsbee.  "  I'll  be  on 
my  way  to  Berlin  to-morrow,  and  I  reckon  the  girls  are 
headin'  up  the  Rhine  to  tackle  some  of  them  ruined  castles. 
But  you  might  ask  'em,  just  for  a  flyer." 


414  Peter  Schroeder. 

"  Don't  you  all  go  mit  yourselves  together  ?  "  queried  the 
astonished  Peter. 

Folinsbee  smiled.  "  Not  much,  I  reckon.  We  only  met 
at  Brussels,  and  we  happened  to  travel  in  the  same  coupe  to 
Cologne.  We  sorter  passed  the  time  o'  day,  swapped  lies, 
and  made  ourselves  sociable.  I  told  'em  at  Cologne  I 
reckoned  to  run  up  yer  to  see  you,  and  asked  'em  to  come 
along.  It  was  a  little  pasear — that's  all.  They're  all  right, 
old  man,"  he  added,  laughing  at  Peter's  puzzled  face — 
"one  of  'em  a  senator's  daughter,  I  reckon.  If  they  ain't 
right,  I'm  responsible." 

Peter  laughed  and  blushed.  Not  that  he  saw  anything 
in  this  escapade  but  an  instance  of  that  Republican  simpli- 
city and  social  freedom  which  he  admired  in  theory ;  but 
he  was  conscious  that  his  new  life  had  brought  with  it 
responsibilities  to  other  customs.  He  was  vaguely  relieved 
that  his  wife  was  not  present  to  hear  Folinsbee's  explana- 
tion, and,  later,  that  the  ladies  politely  declined  his  invita- 
tion. 

Nevertheless,  he  parted  with  them  reluctantly.  When 
the  smart  landau  drove  up  to  his  door,  and  they  took  their 
places,  serene  and  self-possessed,  under  the  wondering  and 
critical  fire  of  his  neighbours'  Spions,  they  seemed  such  a 
vision  of  happy,  confident,  graceful,  beautiful,  and  fitly 
adorned  youth,  that,  as  he  re-entered  his  house,  he  felt  he 
had  grown  a  hundred  years  older,  and  even  his  familiar 
surroundings  appeared  to  belong  to  another  epoch  and 
planet.  He  mounted  slowly  to  the  little  room  which  con- 
tained his  treasures.  He  looked  at  them  again  carefully ; 
inspected  the  grave  melancholy  of  Lincoln's  face,  and  lifted 
the  blue  blouse  from  its  nail.  Were  those  features  "  ugly  "  ? 
was  that  blouse  a  "  rag  "  ?  Peter  pondered  long  and  per- 
plexedly. Gradually  an  explanation  slowly  evolved  itself 
from  its  profundity.  He  placed  his  finger  beside  his  nose, 


Peter  Schroeder.  415 

and  a  look  of  deep  cunning  shone  in  his  eyes.  "  Dot's  it," 
he  said  to  himself  triumphantly,  "  dot's  shoost  it !  Der 
Rebooplicans  dorit  got  no  memories.  Ve  don't  got  nodings 
else." 

He  did  not,  however,  confide  to  his  wife  the  full  details 
of  this  visit.  But  one  day,  when  she  had  returned  from 
visiting  a  remote  cousin  at  Kissingen,  she  asked  him  why 
he  had  never  told  her  that  Mrs.  Johnson  had  called.  The 
guilty  blood  flew  to  Peter's  face,  and  he  stammered  out 
some  half-intelligible  excuse.  To  his  infinite  relief  and 
astonishment,  however,  Frau  Schroeder,  far  from  noticing 
his  confusion,  spoke  volubly  of  having  met  Mrs.  Johnson  at 
Kissingen,  and  dwelt  at  some  length  on  the  gentlemanly 
graces  and  breeding  of  Mr.  Johnson.  "  He  did  not  call  with 
her,  then  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Schroeder.  Peter,  stammering  and 
untruthful,  really  could  not  remember.  There  were  half  a 
dozen  people,  and  they  did  not  stop  long.  "  I  forget  if 
she  said  that  her  husband  knew  you,"  continued  Frau 
Schroeder ;  "  but  you  would  remember  him,  of  course. 
He's  not  like  the  Americans,  you  know — but  like  a — a 
gentleman  and — an — officer."  Peter,  not  daring  to  allude 
to  the  informal  character  of  Mrs.  Johnson's  escort,  said 
nothing.  "  They  are  coming  here  next  week,"  added  Frau 
Schroeder ;  "  I  have  invited  them."  As  Peter  seldom  had 
a  voice  in  the  nomination  of  his  visitors,  he  meekly  acqui- 
esced. "  But  vot  gets  me,"  he  communed  with  himself,  "how 
dot  bretty  Mrs.  Johnson,  mit  no  cards,  gets  mine  wife." 

The  next  week  brought  Mrs.  Johnson,  who  languidly 
remembered  Peter,  and  at  once  made  herself  as  much  at 
home  with  Peter's  wife  as  she  had  with  him.  It  brought 
also  Mr.  Johnson — a  small,  quiet,  plain  man. 

"You  would  hardly  remember  me  as  a  Californian,  Mr. 
Schroeder?"  he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

Peter  would  hardly  have   recognised  him   even   as  an 


41 6  Peter  Schroeder. 

American.  Certainly  no  one  could  be  further  from  the 
type  most  familiar  to  Peter.  He  was  unlike  Folinsbee — 
unlike  any  of  his  old  army  comrades — unlike  any  other 
American  he  had  known,  and  yet  as  certainly  unlike  any 
European  with  whom  Peter  was  familiar.  He  was  as  con- 
fident and  self-possessed  as  Folinsbee,  and  yet  without 
Folinsbee's  humorous  familiarity ;  he  was  modest  and  un- 
assuming, and  yet  Peter  felt  that  he  took  possession  of  him 
as  securely  as  Folinsbee  had.  He  was  inclined  to  resent 
this  at  first — inclined  to  watch  Mr.  Johnson's  mouth — a 
peculiar  mouth,  with  a  latent  apologetical  smile — a  smile  as 
if  humanity  on  all  occasions  presented  a  humorous  aspect 
to  him  (Johnson)  which  nothing  but  his  (Johnson's)  thought- 
full  commiseration  for  humanity  kept  him  from  publicly 
noticing. 

"  Yet,"  continued  Johnson,  regarding  Peter  as  a  wayward, 
mirth-provoking  child,  "yet  I  have  lived  in  California  many 
years.  I  remember  to  have  heard  of  you  there ;  of  your 
good  fortune,  of  your  subsequent  career  in  the  army,  and 
of  your  return  here.  I  have  known  many  of  your  friends. 
Indeed,  I  feel  as  if  we  were  old  acquaintances." 

That  was  what  he  said.  His  smiling  commentary  seemed 
to  Peter  to  add  as  plainly,  "  And  there  are  humorous  depths 
in  your  career  and  character,  Peter,  which  nobody  knows 
better  than  myself;  but  we  won't  say  anything  about  that, 
Peter — not  a  word." 

Considerably  embarrassed,  Peter  asked  him  a  few  ques- 
tions. But  he  was  annoyed  at  the  extent  and  variety  of 
Mr.  Johnson's  knowledge  of  his  affairs.  Scarcely  a  person 
Peter  had  known — scarcely  an  incident  in  Peter's  experience 
— but  were  as  equally  and  humorously  recognised  by  Mr. 
Johnson.  Peter's  first  partner  in  the  mines,  the  bugler  in 
his  regiment,  his  fellow-passenger  and  room-mate  in  the 
steamer,  his  banker  and  friend  in  Cologne,  even  his  wife's 


Peter  Schroeder.  417 

relations — yea,  actually,  a  certain  awe-inspiring  General  and 
forty-first  cousin  of  Frau  Schroeder's  at  Coblentz,  were  all 
familiar  to  Johnson.  And  all  and  each  were,  on  the  autho- 
rity of  his  peculiar  smile,  more  or  less  ridiculous,  if  he  chose 
to  say  so.  But  he  wouldn't. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  appearance  of  restrained  power,  com- 
bined with  great  gentleness  of  manner,  which  made  him 
so  popular  with  the  women,  and  particularly  with  Frau 
Schroeder.  No  American  had  before  touched  that  formal, 
well-regulated  woman's  heart.  Peter  was  astounded  at  the 
influence  this  stranger  had  gained  in  the  Von  Hummel 
family.  Had  he  not  intimated,  by  his  peculiar  smile,  that 
he  was  sure  that  the  Herr  General  Von  Hummel  drank  too 
much,  and  that  the  family  were  more  than  once  scandalised 
by  his  too  susceptible  weaknesses  for  the  fair  sex  ?  Had 
he  not  suggested  in  the  same  way  that  the  learned  Herr 
Professor's  last  book  on  Ethnology  was  ridiculous — as, 
indeed,  some  critics  had  already  said — but  insinuated  that 
he  was  even  capable  of  greater  folly  ?  Honest  Peter  could 
not  understand  it.  Folinsbee,  with  his  blunt  familiarity  and 
frivolity,  would  have  been  coldly  repulsed  by  Frau  Schroeder. 
Peter  even  now  shuddered  as  he  recafted  the  blank  and 
even  resentful  amazement  with  which  she  had  received  the 
characteristic  humour  of  an  American  tourist  to  whom  he 
had  once,  in  their  earlier  married  life,  rashly  introduced  her. 
Who  was  this  Mr.  T.  Barker  Johnson?  Even  the  usual 
local  caution  regarding  a  stranger's  social  and  financial  stand- 
ing was  withheld.  Frau  Schroeder  spoke  of  him  as  a 
Californian  capitalist  His  banker — Peter's  banker  too — 
knew  him  as  a  man  of  ample  remittances.  That  was  all. 

For  two  weeks  the  stranger  had  held  undoubted  sway  at 
the  Schroeders'.  Dinners  and  suppers  had  been  given  in 
his  honour.  General  Von  Hummel  had  sat  late  with  him  at 
table  ;  the  Herr  Professor  had  presented  him  with  his  last 

VOL.  III.  2  D 


4 1 8  Peter  Schroeder. 

volume  and  disclosed  his  future  literary  intentions.  Even 
Peter  was  conscious  of  being  lifted  into  importance  in  his 
own  family  by  his  former  residence  in  the  country  of  this 
popular  stranger  and  his  familiarity  with  Americans.  Little 
as  he  knew  of  the  type  represented  by  Johnson,  he  was 
compelled  in  sheer  self-defence  to  assume  a  thorough  know- 
ledge of  it ;  and  I  fear  the  poor  fellow  went  even  so  far — 
when  the  praises  of  Johnson  were  being  hymned  in  his  ears 
— as  to  invent  florid  reminiscences  of  other  Johnsons  more 
extraordinary  than  this.  *'  Wunderschon  !  "  gasped  the  apo- 
plectic General.  "  Man  knows  when  man  in  that  wonderful 
country  has  been,"  said  Peter,  shaking  his  head  senten- 
tiously.  The  Frau  Schroeder  did  not  endorse  this  sentiment. 
"  There  are  Americans — and  Americans  !  "  she  said  signi- 
ficantly ;  and  Peter  was  fain  to  retire  to  his  little  room,  and, 
in  company  with  his  pipe,  contemplate  the  portrait  of  Lincoln 
and  the  faded  trappings  of  his  old  military  service. 

He  was  sitting  thus  one  evening,  when  there  came  a  tap 
at  his  door.  It  opened  to  Johnson — quiet,  gentlemanly, 
and  humorously  sympathetic.  Peter  was  a  little  embar- 
rassed. Since  the  exhibition  of  his  treasures  to  the  Folinsbee 
party  he  had  grown  doubtful  of  their  effect  upon  strangers, 
and  had  said  nothing  of  them  to  Johnson.  But  that  gentle- 
man smiled  on  Lincoln's  picture  as  on  a  brother  humorist, 
and  looked  at  Peter's  blouse  and  cap  with  an  evident  instinc- 
tive foreknowledge  of  all  that  was  laughable  in  his  history. 

"  You  knew  dot  Lincoln  ?  "  queried  Peter  timidly,  pointing 
with  his  pipe  at  the  picture. 

Johnson  smiled.  It  presently  appeared  that  he  not  only 
knew  all  that  contemporary  history  knew  of  the  martyred 
President,  but  many  facts  yet  unrecorded.  To  Mr.  Lincoln's 
humour — as  interpreted  by  Peter  in  one  or  two  well-worn 
anecdotes — Mr.  Johnson  accorded  the  recognition  of  a 
thoughtful  smile,  while  in  Peter's  clothes  he  detected  evi- 


Peter  Schroeder.  419 

dently  some  kindred  and  latent  folly.  Emboldened  by  his 
sympathy,  Peter  confided  to  him  the  history  of  his  life,  his 
aims,  his  political  theories  and  dreams,  and  even  his  recent 
disappointment  at  the  conduct  of  Folinsbee  and  his  friends. 
"  Yes,"  said  Peter,  "  he  called  mine  uniform  *  rags ' — dot 
was  not  an  oopside  ding  to  say,  Mr.  Johnson,  and  I  says  mit 
mineself,  '  Der  Rebooplicans  don't  got  no  memories ' — eh  ?  " 

Mr.  Johnson  smiled  assentingly,  patiently,  expectantly — 
quite  as  if  he  were  previously  aware  of  all  Peter  had  told 
him — but  was  too  polite  to  interrupt  him.  Then,  laying 
his  hand  on  Peter's  shoulder,  he  said  softly,  "You're  too 
good  a  Republican,  Peter,  to  brood  over  mere  sentimental 
memories.  Now,  look  here.  I  like  you,  and  I  want  to  be 
frank  with  you.  I  know  you,  and  you're  not  properly  appre- 
ciated here — even  by  your  own  family.  It  is  time,  Peter, 
you  should  assert  yourself.  It  is  time  they  should  know 
what  you  are.  You  are  the  stuff  from  which  Liberators 
and  Deliverers  are  made.  I  saw  it  when  I  first  saw  you — 
long  before  you  ever  knew  me." 

The  most  modest  and  unassuming  man  has  somewhere 
within  him  the  germ  of  self-conscious  merit,  which  needs 
only  the  sunshine  of  praise  to  bud  and  blossom  into  life. 
Poor  Peter  had  never  known  praise  before — perhaps  he  had 
never  missed  it — but,  tasting  the  strange  fruit,  he  found  it 
good,  and  that,  like  other  forbidden  fruit,  it  made  him  a 
god  like  others,  and,  with  his  face  glowing  with  pleasure,  he 
seized  and  shook  Johnson's  hand  warmly.  He  was  still 
too  unsophisticated  to  disguise  his  feelings.  Perhaps, 
having  already  suffered  from  modesty,  he  did  not  care  to 
simulate  it. 

"  It  rests  with  you,  Peter,  to  make  yourself  what  you 
should  be — what  you  can  be,"  continued  Johnson.  "  What 
if  I  told  you  of  another  country,  Peter — newer  and  fresher 
than  the  one  you  once  adopted;  where  the  soil  is  virgin 


420  Peter  Schroeder. 

and  the  people  are  plastic — a  country  to  be  moulded  and 
fashioned  into  shape  by  men  like  you — a  country  with 
no  predilections,  few  traditions,  and  no  history — a  republic 
wanting  only  ideas,  and  capital — a  country  that  you  might 
become  president  of — as  I  am  ?  " 

Peter,  whose  eyes  had  been  growing  wider  and  wider, 
shut  them  at  this  climax  from  sheer  inability  to  face  the 
astounding  revelation.  There  was  a  dead  silence.  The 
voice  of  Mrs.  Johnson  at  the  piano  came  melodiously  from 
the  drawing-room ;  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Schroeder,  inquiring 
for  her  missing  lord,  came  potentially  from  the  hall  below ; 
but  Peter  heeded  them  not.  Johnson  smiled,  closed  the 
door,  and  drawing  a  chair  beside  Peter,  in  a  confidential 
whisper  quietly  took  absorbing  possession  of  his  faculties 
for  two  mortal  hours. 

I  had  arrived  at  Calais  from  Brussels  near  midnight — an 
hour  too  early  for  the  tidal  boat,  and  in  advance  of  the 
train  from  Paris.  There  was  scarcely  time  to  seek  an  hotel 
— too  much  time  to  wait  at  the  station,  and  the  keeper  of 
the  "  buffet  "  had  informed  me  that  his  "  establishment " 
could  not  be  open  for  the  receipt  of  custom  until  the 
arrival  of  the  Paris  train.  Noticing  a  light  in  a  cosy  sitting- 
room  adjoining,  I  made  bold,  in  spite  of  his  protestations, 
to  enter,  and  was  confronted  by  Jack  Folinsbee,  much  to 
our  mutual  astonishment. 

His  greeting  was  hearty.  "  Come  in.  Don't  mind  that 
'barkeep.'  I'm  running  this  yer  concern  until  the  train 
comes  in.  He  tried  to  turn  me  off  at  first,  too.  But  I 
asked  him  what  he  reckoned  the  rent  of  this  old  shebang 
would  be  for  two  hours.  He  tore  round  and  thought  I  was 
crazy,  I  s'pose,  until  he  saw  I  meant  business,  and  he  fixed 
his  price.  I  paid  him  and  took  possession.  Now,  what'll 
you  take,  old  boy  ?  Name  your  pizen.  This  is  my  treat. 


Peter  Schroeder.  421 

And  I  didn't  think  when  I  left  Californy  that  I'd  be  run- 
ning a  railroad  restaurant  in  France." 

It  was  true  :  he  had,  after  his  Californian  fashion,  gratified 
his  present  whim  at  a  pretty  price.  The  landlord,  looking 
upon  him  as  a  spendthrift  savage,  was,  I  think,  a  little 
relieved  when  my  appearance  took  some  of  the  responsi- 
bility off  his  hands.  By  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire,  in  a 
comfortable  armchair,  I  did  not  propose  to  question  the 
propriety  of  his  impulses. 

Our  talk  naturally  fell  upon  old  days  and  old  friends. 
"  You  remember  '  Dutch  Pete,'  don't  you  ?  "  asked  Folins- 
bee.  I  did  remember  Peter  Schroeder.  "  You  know," 
continued  Jack,  "  how  he  took  the  money  he  made  in  that 
big  strike,  and,  instead  of  getting  away  with  it,  goes  off  in  a 
wildgoose  chase  to  fight  in  the  War  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Well,  he  had  fool's  luck  then.  Got  off  without  a  scratch  • 
went  back  to  Germany  a  rich  man,  married  and  settled 
down,  and  might  have  been  all  right  now.  But  this  yer  last 
foolishness  of  his  has  fixed  him — sent  him  up  the  flume — 
sure ! " 

I  begged  Folinsbee  to  explain. 

"  Well,  I  reckon  perhaps  Tm  a  little  to  blame  for  it  too. 
You  remember  Johnson — T.  Barker  Johnson — that  old 
filibuster?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  failed,  don't  yer  know,  with  Walker  in  Nicaragua, 
but  came  mighty  near  fixing  things  his  own  way  in  Costa 
Rica.  Yes,  sir,"  continued  Jack,  becoming  excited,  "it 
was  a  big  thing  he  did  down  there.  All  alone,  too.  Got  a 
canoe,  by  gum  !  and  pulled  out  to  a  ship's  yawl,  and  sorter 
revolutionises  the  yawl's  crew ;  then  he  takes  that  crew  to 
the  ship  and  raises  a  mutiny  in  the  ship,  takes  command 
of  the  ship,  and  calls  himself  Admiral  of  the  Ometepe  Navy, 


422  Peter  Schroeder. 

and  summons  a  fort  to  surrender!  And  it  surrenders 
blank  it  all ! — the  whole  garrison  and  the  Ometepe  army 
surrenders.  And  he  was  such  a  quiet  man — such  a  verj 
qui-et  man  !  You  remember  him,  Major,  don't  you  ? — such 
a  qui-et  man — just  the  faintest  little  snicker  round  his  mouth, 
but  allus  so  qui-et — just  a  lamb." 

I  ventured  to  remind  Jack  that  we  were  talking  of  Peter 
Schroeder. 

"  That's  so.  Well  Johnson  got  hisself  made  President  or 
Dictator  of  the  Ometepe  Confederacy — or  at  least  one  wing 
of  it — and  came  over  here  incog.  t  to  negotiate  bonds  and 
get  money.  Well,  it  was  jest  my  luck  about  that  time  to 
meet  Mrs.  Johnson  and  a  party  of  nice  girls,  travelling,  and 
I  took  'em  to  see  Peter  just  for  a  pasear.  Peter  was  just 
about  as  big  a  fool  as  ever,  and  showed  us  his  army  duds, 
and  spouted  patriotic  hog-wash ;  and  I  reckon  Mrs.  Johnson 
sorter  took  Peter's  measure  then  and  thar.  But  she  says 
nothing,  and  it  comes  about  in  some  way  that  she  meets 
Mrs.  Peter,  who,  I  reckon,  manages  Peter  and  keeps  him 
in  bounds,  and  she  captures  her,  and  Johnson  captures 
Peter,  and  the  game  is  made.  For  in  less  than  ten  months 
— by  gosh  ! — the  Johnsons  have  got  Peter  made  over, 
capital  and  all,  to  the  Ometepe  Confederacy.  And,  as  if 
that  wasn't  enough,  d — n  me !  if  they  didn't  rope  in  the 
whole  Schroeder  family  generally— old  Frau  Schroeder, 
aunts,  uncles,  cousins,  and  all.  By  Jingo !  there  was  a 
whole  German  colony  started  out  to  Ometepe  to  settle,  and 
Peter  was  made  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  ! " 

"And  then" 

Folinsbee  looked  at  me  in  contemptuous  surprise. 
"  And  then  ?  Why,  of  course,  the  whole  thing  goes  up. 
It  might  have  been  a  month — I  reckon  it  wasn't  more  than 
three  weeks — that  they  had  a  stable  Government  in  Ometepe, 
But  it  busted  at  the  end  of  that  time — busted  clean  ?  " 


Peter  Schroeder.  423 

"And  Peter?" 

"  That's  just  it !  You  see,  all  the  Germans  skedaddled 
except  Peter.  Even  Johnson,  I  reckon,  got  clean  away. 
But  Peter — and  that's  where  his  God-forsaken  foolishness 
comes  in — hangs  round  and  gets  captured.  At  least,  you 
don't  hear  any  more  about  him" 

Folinsbee  was  wrong.  More  was  heard  of  Peter 
Schroeder.  For,  when  captured  and  led  out  to  be  shot  as 
an  insurgent,  one  of  his  comrades  made  an  attempt  to  save 
him,  on  the  plea  of  his  being  an  innocent  German  emigrant. 
The  General  was  inexorable ;  the  firing  party  was  waiting, 
but  Peter's  friend  still  pleaded. 

"  Let  him  step  to  the  front ! " 

Peter  stepped  calmly  before  the  loaded  muskets.  But 
his  friend  saw  in  dismay  that  he  had  changed  his  clothes, 
and  wore  his  faded  blouse  and  blue  army  cap  of  an  Ameri- 
can sergeant. 

"Prisoner,  to  what  nation  do  you  claim  to  belong?" 

Peter's  blue  eyes  kindled.  "  Dot's  it !  I  claim  to  be  an 
American  citi " 

The  officer's  sword  waved,  there  was  a  crackle  of  mus- 
ketry and  the  rising  of  a  pale-blue  smoke.  And  on  its 
wings  the  soul  of  Peter  Schroeder  went  in  quest  of  his  ideal 
Republic. 


flowing  on  tfje  Htienues. 

I  HAVE  always  been  an  early  riser.  The  popular  legend 
that  "  Early  to  bed  and  early  to  rise,"  invariably  and 
rhythmically  resulted  in  healthfulness,  opulence,  and  wisdom, 
I  beg  here  to  solemnly  protest  against.  As  an  "  unhealthy  " 
man,  as  an  "  unwealthy "  man,  and  doubtless  by  virtue  of 
this  protest  an  " unwise"  man,  I  am,  I  think,  a  glaring  ex- 
ample of  the  untruth  of  the  proposition. 

For  instance,  it  is  my  misfortune,  as  an  early  riser,  to 
live  upon  a  certain  fashionable  avenue,  where  the  practice 
of  early  rising  is  confined  exclusively  to  domestics.  Conse- 
quently, when  I  issue  forth  on  this  broad,  beautiful  thorough- 
fare at  6  A. M.,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  I  am  to  a  certain 
extent  desecrating  its  traditional  customs.  I  have  more 
than  once  detected  the  milkman  winking  at  the  maid  with 
a  diabolical  suggestion  that  I  was  returning  from  a  carouse, 
and  Roundsman  9999  has  once  or  twice  followed  me  a 
block  or  two  with  the  evident  impression  that  I  was  a 
burglar  returning  from  a  successful  evening  out.  Never- 
theless, these  various  indiscretions  have  brought  me  into 
contact  with  a  kind  of  character  and  phenomena  whose 
existence  I  might  otherwise  have  doubted. 

First,  let  me  speak  of  a  large  class  of  working  people 
whose  presence  is,  I  think,  unknown  to  many  of  those 
gentlemen  who  are  in  the  habit  of  legislating  or  writing 
about  them.  A  majority  of  these  early  risers  in  the  neigh- 


Morning  on  the  Avenues.  425 

bourhood  of  which  I  may  call  my  "  beat "  carry  with  them 
unmistakable  evidences  of  the  American  type.  I  have 
seen  so  little  of  that  foreign  element  that  is  popularly  sup- 
posed to  be  the  real  working  class  of  the  great  metropolis 
that  I  have  often  been  inclined  to  doubt  statistics.  The 
ground  that  my  morning  rambles  cover  extends  from 
Twenty-third  Street  to  Washington  Park,  and  laterally  from 
Sixth  Avenue  to  Broadway.  The  early  rising  artisans  that 
I  meet  here,  crossing  three  avenues,  the  milkmen,  the  truck 
drivers,  the  workman,  even  the  occasional  tramp — wherever 
they  may  come  from  or  go  to,  or  what  their  real  habitat 
may  be — are  invariably  Americans.  I  give  it  as  an  honest 
record — whatever  its  significance  or  insignificance  may  be 
— that  during  the  last  year,  between  the  hours  of  6  and 
8  A.M.,  in  and  about  the  locality  I  have  mentioned  I  have 
met  with  but  two  unmistakable  foreigners — an  Irishman 
and  a  German.  Perhaps  it  may  be  necessary  to  add  to 
this  statement  that  the  people  I  have  met  at  those  hours 
I  have  never  seen  at  any  other  time  in  the  same  locality. 

As  to  their  quality,  the  artisans  were  always  cleanly 
dressed,  intelligent,  and  respectful.  I  remember,  however, 
one  morning,  when  the  ice  storm  of  the  preceding  night  had 
made  the  sidewalks  glistening,  smiling,  and  impassable,  to 
have  journeyed  down  the  middle  of  Twelfth  Street  with  a 
mechanic  so  sooty  as  to  absolutely  leave  a  legible  track  in 
the  snowy  pathway.  He  was  the  fireman  attending  the 
engine  in  a  noted  manufactory,  and  in  our  brief  conversation 
he  told  me  many  facts  regarding  his  profession,  which  I  fear 
interested  me  more  than  the  after-dinner  speeches  of  some 
distinguished  gentlemen  I  had  heard  the  preceding  night. 
I  remember  that  he  spoke  of  his  engine  as  "  she,"  and  related 
certain  circumstances  regarding  her  inconsistency,  her  aber- 
rations, her  pettishnesses,  that  seemed  to  justify  the  feminine 
gender.  I  have  a  grateful  recollection  of  him  as  being  one 


426  Morning  on  the  Avenues. 

who  introduced  me  to  a  restaurant  where  chicory,  thinly 
disguised  as  coffee,  was  served  with  bread  at  five  cents  a  cup, 
and  that  he  honourably  insisted  on  being  the  host,  and  paid 
his  ten  cents  for  our  mutual  entertainment  with  the  grace  of 
a  Barmecide.  I  remember,  in  a  more  genial  season — I  think, 
early  summer — to  have  found  upon  the  benches  of  Washington 
Park  a  gentleman  who  informed  me  that  his  profession  was 
that  of  a  "pigeon-catcher,"  that  he  contracted  with  certain 
parties  in  this  city  to  furnish  these  birds  for  what  he  called  their 
"  pigeon  shoots,"  and  that,  in  fulfilling  this  contract  he  often 
was  obliged  to  go  as  far  west  as  Minnesota.  The  details  he 
gave,  his  methods  of  entrapping  the  birds,  his  study  of  their 
habits,  his  evident  belief  that  the  city  pigeon,  however  well 
provided  for  by  parties  who  fondly  believed  the  bird  to  be 
their  own,  was  really^ra  natures,  and  consequently  "  game  " 
for  the  pigeon-catcher,  were  all  so  interesting  that  I  listened 
to  him  with  undisguised  delight  When  he  had  finished, 
however,  he  said,  "  And  now,  sir,  being  a  poor  man  with 
a  large  family,  and  work  bein'  rather  slack  this  year,  if  ye 
could  oblige  me  with  the  loan  of  a  dollar  and  your  address, 
until  remittances  what  I'm  expecting  come  in  from  Chicago, 
you'll  be  doin'  me  a  great  service,  &c.,  &c."  He  got  the 
dollar,  of  course  (his  information  was  worth  twice  the  money), 
but  I  imagine  he  lost  my  address.  Yet  it  is  only  fair  to  say 
that  some  days  after,  relating  this  experience  to  a  prominent 
sporting  man,  he  corroborated  all  its  details,  and  satisfied 
me  that  my  pigeon-catching  friend,  although  unfortunate, 
was  not  an  impostor. 

And  this  leads  me  to  speak  of  the  birds.  Of  all  early 
risers,  my  most  importunate,  aggressive,  and  obtrusive  com- 
panions are  the  English  sparrows.  Between  7  and  8  A.M. 
they  seem  to  possess  the  avenue  and  resent  my  intrusion. 
I  remember,  one  chilly  morning,  when  I  came  upon  a  flurry 
of  them,  chattering,  quarrelling,  skimming,  and  alighting  just 


Morning  on  the  Avenues.  427 

before  me,  I  stopped  at  last,  fearful  of  stepping  on  the 
nearest.  To  my  great  surprise,  instead  of  flying  away,  he 
contested  the  ground  inch  by  inch  before  my  advancing  foot, 
with  its  wings  outspread  and  open  bill  outstretched,  very 
much  like  that  ridiculous  burlesque  of  the  American  eagle, 
which  the  common  canary  bird  assumes  when  teased.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  'em  wash  in  the  fountain  in  the  square  ?  "  said 
Roundsman  9999,  early  one  summer  morning.  I  had  not. 
"  I  guess  they're  there  yet.  Come  and  see  'em,"  he  said,  and 
complacently  accompanied  me  two  blocks.  I  don't  know 
which  was  the  finer  sight :  the  thirty  or  forty  winged  sprites 
dashing  in  and  out  of  the  basin,  each  the  very  impersonation 
of  a  light-hearted,  mischievous  Puck,  or  this  grave  policeman, 
with  badge  and  club  and  shield,  looking  on  with  delight. 
Perhaps  my  visible  amusement,  or  the  spectacle  of  a  brother 
policeman  just  then  going  past  with  a  couple  of  "  drunk  and 
disorderlies,"  recalled  his  official  responsibility  and  duties. 
"  They  say  them  foreign  sparrows  drives  all  the  other  birds 
away,"  he  added  severely,  and  then  walked  off  with  a  certain 
reserved  manner,  as  if  it  were  not  impossible  for  him  to  be 
called  upon  some  morning  to  take  the  entire  feathered 
assembly  into  custody,  and  if  so  called  upon  he  should 
do  it. 

Next,  I  think,  In  procession  among  the  early  risers,  and 
surely  next  in  fresh  and  innocent  exterior,  were  the  work- 
women or  shop  girls.  I  have  seen  this  beautiful  avenue  on 
its  gala  afternoon  bright  with  the  beauty  and  elegance  of 
an  opulent  city,  but  I  have  seen  no  more  beautiful  faces 
than  I  have  seen  among  these  humbler  sisters.  As  the 
mere  habits  of  dress  in  America,  except  to  a  very  acute 
critic,  give  no  suggestion  of  the  rank  of  the  wearer,  I  can 
imagine  an  inexperienced  foreigner  utterly  mystified  and 
confounded  by  these  girls,  who  perhaps  work  a  sewing 
machine  or  walk  the  long  floors  of  a  fashionable  dry  goods 


428  Morning  on  the  Avenues. 

shop.  I  remember  one  face  and  figure,  faultless  and  com- 
plete— modestly  yet  most  becomingly  dressed — indeed  a 
figure  that  Compte-Calix  might  have  taken  for  one  of  his 
exquisite  studies,  which,  between  7  and  8  A.M.,  passed 
through  Eleventh  Street,  between  Sixth  Avenue  and  Broad- 
way. So  exceptionally  fine  was  her  carriage,  so  chaste  and 
virginal  her  presence,  and  so  refined  and  even  spiritual  her 
features,  that,  as  a  literary  man,  I  would  have  been  justified 
in  taking  her  for  the  heroine  of  a  society  novel.  Indeed  I 
had  already  woven  a  little  romance  about  her,  when  one 
morning  she  overtook  me  accompanied  by  another  girl — 
pretty,  but  of  a  different  type — with  whom  she  was  earnestly 
conversing.  As  the  two  passed  me  there  fell  from  her 
faultless  lips  the  following  astounding  sentence : — "And  I 
told  him  if  he  didn't  like  it  he  might  lump  it,  and  he 
travelled  off  on  his  left  ear,  you  bet."  Heaven  knows  what 
indiscretion  this  speech  saved  me  from,  but  the  reader  will 
understand  what  a  sting  the  pain  of  rejection  might  have 
added  to  it  by  the  above  formula. 

The  "  morning  cocktail "  men  come  next  in  my  experi- 
ence of  early  rising.  I  used  to  take  my  early  cup  of  coffee 
in  the  caf£  of  a  certain  fashionable  restaurant  that  had  a 
bar  attached.  I  could  not  help  noticing  that,  unlike  the 
usual  social  libations  of  my  countrymen,  the  act  of  taking 
a  morning  cocktail  was  a  solitary  one.  In  the  course  of 
my  experience  I  cannot  recall  the  fact  of  two  men  taking 
an  ante-breakfast  cocktail  together.  On  the  contrary,  I 
have  observed  the  male  animal  rush  savagely  at  the  bar, 
demand  his  drink  of  the  barkeeper,  swallow  it,  and  hasten 
from  the  scene  of  his  early  debauchery,  or  else  take  it  in 
a  languid,  perfunctory  manner,  which,  I  think,  must  have 
been  insulting  to  the  barkeeper.  I  have  observed  two  men 
whom  I  had  seen  drinking  amicably  together  the  preceding 
night,  standing  gloomily  at  the  opposite  corners  of  the  bar, 


Morning  on  the  Avenues.  429 

evidently  trying  not  to  see  each  other,  and  making  the 
matter  a  confidential  one  with  the  barkeeper.  I  have  seen 
even  a  thin  disguise  of  simplicity  assumed.  I  remember 
an  elderly  gentleman,  of  most  respectable  exterior,  who 
used  to  enter  the  cafe*  as  if  he  had  strayed  there  accident- 
ally. After  looking  around  carefully,  and  yet  unostenta- 
tiously, he  would  walk  to  the  bar,  and,  with  an  air  of  affected 
carelessness,  state  that  "  not  feeling  well  this  morning,  he 
guessed  he  would  take — well,  he  would  leave  it  to  the 
barkeeper."  The  barkeeper  invariably  gave  him  a  stiff 
brandy  cocktail.  When  the  old  gentleman  had  done  this 
half-a-dozen  times,  I  think  I  lost  faith  in  him.  I  tried 
afterward  to  glean  from  the  barkeeper  some  facts  regarding 
those  experiences,  but  I  am  proud  to  say  that  he  was  honour- 
ably reticent.  Indeed,  I  think  it  may  be  said,  truthfully, 
that  there  is  no  record  of  a  barkeeper  who  has  been 
"interviewed."  Clergymen  and  doctors  have,  but  it  is  well 
for  the  weaknesses  of  humanity  that  the  line  should  be 
drawn  somewhere. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  one  distressing  phase  of  early 
rising  is  the  incongruous  and  unpleasant  contact  of  the 
preceding  night  The  social  yesterday  is  not  fairly  over 
before  9  A.M.,  to-day,  and  there  is  always  a  humorous,  some- 
times a  pathetic  lapping  over  the  edges.  I  remember  one 
morning  at  6  o'clock  to  have  been  overtaken  by  a  carriage 
that  drew  up  beside  me.  I  recognised  the  coachman,  who 
touched  his  hat  apologetically,  as  if  he  wished  me  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  not  at  all  responsible  for  the  condition  of 
his  master,  and  I  went  to  the  door  of  the  carriage.  I  was 
astonished  to  find  two  young  friends  of  mine,  in  correct 
evening  dress,  reclining  on  each  other's  shoulders,  and 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  the  justly  inebriated.  I  stated  this 
fact  to  the  coachman.  Not  a  muscle  of  his  well-trained 
face  answered  to  my  smile.  But  he  said,  "  You  see,  sir, 


430  Morning  on  the  Avenues. 

we've  been  out  all  night,  and  more  than  four  blocks  below, 
they  saw  you,  and  wanted  me  to  hail  you,  but  you  know 
you  stopped  to  speak  to  a  gentleman,  and  so  I  sorter 
lingered,  and  I  drove  round  the  block  once  or  twice  and  I 
guess  I've  got  'em  quiet  again."  I  looked  in  the  carriage 
door  once  more  on  these  sons  of  Belial.  They  were  sleep- 
ing quite  unconsciously.  A  botitonnilre  in  the  lappel  of  the 
younger  one's  coat  had  shed  its  leaves  which  were  scattered 
over  him  with  a  ridiculous  suggestion  of  the  "  babes  in 
the  wood,"  and  I  closed  the  carriage  door  softly.  "  I  sup- 
pose I'd  better  take  'em  home,  sir?"  queried  the  coach- 
man gravely.  "Well,  yes,  John,  perhaps  you  had." 

There  is  another  picture  in  my  early  rising  experience 
that  I  wish  was  as  simply  and  honestly  ludicrous.  It  was 
at  a  time  when  the  moral  sentiment  of  the  metropolis, 
expressed  through  ordinance  and  special  legislation,  had 
declared  itself  against  a  certain  form  of  "  variety "  enter- 
tainment, and  had,  as  usual,  proceeded  against  the  per- 
formers, and  not  the  people  who  encouraged  themv  I 
remember,  one  frosty  morning,  to  have  encountered  in 
Washington  Park  my  honest  friend,  Sergeant  X.,  and  Rounds- 
man 9999  conveying  a  party  of  these  derelicts  to  the 
station.  One  of  the  women,  evidently,  had  not  had  time 
to  change  her  apparel,  and  had  thinly  disguised  the  flowing 
robe  and  loose  cestus  of  Venus  under  a  ragged  "  waterproof; " 
while  the  other,  who  had  doubtless  posed  for  Mercury,  hid 
her  shapely  tights  in  a  plaid  shawl,  and  changed  her  winged 
sandals  for  a  pair  of  "  arctics."  Their  rouged  faces  were 
streaked  and  stained  with  tears.  The  man  who  was  with 
them,  the  male  of  their  species,  had  but  hastily  washed 
himself  of  his  Ethiopian  presentment,  and  was  still  black 
behind  the  ears  ;  while  an  exaggerated  shirt  collar  and  frilled 
shirt  made  his  occasional  indignant  profanity  irresistibly 
ludicrous.  So  they  fared  on  over  the  glittering  snow, 


Morning  on  the  Avenues.  43 1 

against  the  rosy  sunlight  of  the  square,  the  gray  front  of 
the  University  building,  with  a  few  twittering  sparrows  in  the 
foreground,  beside  the  two  policemen,  quiet  and  impassive 
as  fate.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  distinguished  A., 
the  most  fashionable  B.,  the  wealthy  and  respectable  C, 
the  sentimental  D.,  and  the  man  of  the  world  E.,  who 
were  present  at  the  performance,  whose  distinguished  pat- 
ronage had  called  it  into  life,  and  who  were  then  resting 
quietly  in  their  beds,  while  these  haggard  servants  of  their 
pleasaunce  were  haled  over  the  snow  to  punishment  and 
ignominy,  . 

Let  me  finish  by  recalling  one  brighter  picture  of  that 
same  season.  It  was  early — so  early  that  the  cross  of 
Grace  Church  had,  when  I  looked  up,  just  caught  the 
morning  sun,  and  for  a  moment  flamed  like  a  crusader's 
symbol.  And  then  the  grace  and  glory  of  that  exquisite 
spire  became  slowly  visible.  Fret  by  fret  the  sunlight  stole 
slowly  down,  quivering  and  dropping  from  each,  until  at 
last  the  whole  church  beamed  in  rosy  radiance.  Up  and 
down  the  long  avenue  the  street  lay  in  shadow ;  by  some 
strange  trick  of  the  atmosphere  the  sun  seemed  to  have 
sought  out  only  that  graceful  structure  for  its  blessing. 
And  then  there  was  a  dull  rumble.  It  was  the  first  omni- 
bus— the  first  throb  in  the  grtfet  artery  of  the  reviving  city. 
I  looked  up.  The  church  was  again  in  shadow. 


(    432    ) 


JTrtenD  tfje  Cramp, 


I  HAD  been  sauntering  over  the  clover  downs  of  a  certain 
noted  New  England  seaport  It  was  a  Sabbath  morning, 
so  singularly  reposeful  and  gracious  —  so  replete  with  the 
significance  of  the  seventh  day  of  rest  that  even  the  Sabbath 
bells  ringing  a  mile  away  over  the  salt  marshes  had  little 
that  was  monitory,  mandatory,  or  even  supplicatory  in  their 
drowsy  voices.  Rather  they  seemed  to  call  from  their 
cloudy  towers,  like  some  renegade  Muezzin  :  "  Sleep  is 
better  than  prayer  ;  sleep  on,  O  sons  of  the  Puritans  ! 
Slumber  still,  O  deacons  and  vestrymen.  Let,  oh  let  those 
feet  that  are  swift  to  wickedness  curl  up  beneath  thee  ; 
those  palms  that  are  itching  for  the  shekels  of  the  ungodly, 
lie  clasped  beneath  thy  pillow.  Sleep  is  better  than 
prayer." 

And,  indeed,  though  it  was*  high  morning,  sleep  was  still 
in  the  air.  Wrought  upon  at  last  by  the  combined  influ- 
ences of  sea  and  sky  and  atmosphere,  I  succumbed,  and 
lay  down  on  one  of  the  boulders  of  a  little  stony  slope  that 
gave  upon  the  sea.  The  great  Atlantic  lay  before  me,  not 
yet  quite  awake,  but  slowly  heaving  with  the  rhythmical 
expiration  of  slumber.  There  was  no  sail  visible  in  the 
misty  horizon.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  lie  and 
stare  at  the  unwinking  ether. 

Suddenly  I  became  aware  of  the  strong  fumes  of  tobacco. 
Turning  my  head  I  saw  a  pale,  blue  smoke  curling  up  from 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  433 

behind  an  adjacent  boulder.  Rising  and  climbing  over  the 
intervening  granite,  I  came  upon  a  little  hollow  in  which, 
comfortably  extended  on  the  mosses  and  lichens,  lay  a 
powerfully  built  man.  He  was  very  ragged ;  he  was  very 
dirty ;  there  was  a  strong  suggestion  about  him  of  his  having 
too  much  hair,  too  much  nail,  too  much  perspiration ;  too 
much  of  those  superfluous  excrescences  and  exudations  that 
society  and  civilisation  strive  to  keep  under.  But  it  was 
noticeable  that  he  had  not  much  of  anything  else.  It  was 
The  Tramp. 

With  that  swift  severity  with  which  we  always  visit  rebuke 
upon  the  person  who  happens  to  present  any  one  of  our 
vices  offensively  before  us,  in  his  own  person,  I  was  deeply 
indignant  at  his  laziness.  Perhaps  I  showed  it  in  my 
manner,  for  he  rose  to  a  half-sitting  attitude,  returned  my 
stare  apologetically,  and  made  a  movement  toward  knocking 
the  fire  from  his  pipe  against  the  granite. 

"  Shure,  sur,  and  if  I'd  belaved  that  I  was  trispassin'  on 
yer  honour's  grounds  it's  meself  that  would  hev  laid  down 
on  the  say-shore  and  taken  the  salt  waves  for  me  blankits. 
But  it's  sivinteen  miles  I've  walked  this  blessed  noight,  with 
nothin'  to  sustain  me,  and  hevin'  a  mortal  wakeness  to  fight 
wid  in  me  bowels,  by  reason  of  starvation,  and  only  a  bit  o' 
baccy  that  the  Widdy  Maloney  giv  me  at  the  cross-roads, 
to  kape  me  up  entoirly.  But  it  was  the  dark  day  I  left  me 
home  in  Milwaukee  to  walk  to  Boston,  and  if  ye'll  oblige  a 
lone  man  who  has  left  a  wife  and  six  children  in  Milwaukee, 
wid  the  loan  of  twenty-five  cints,  furninst  the  time  he  gits 
wurruk,  God'll  be  good  to  ye." 

It  instantly  flashed  through  my  mind  that  the  man  before 
me  had  the  previous  night  partaken  of  the  kitchen  hos- 
pitality of  my  little  cottage,  two  miles  away.  That  he 
presented  himself  in  the  guise  of  a  distressed  fisherman, 
mulcted  of  his  wages  by  an  inhuman  captain ;  that  he  had 

VOL.  III.  2  E 


434  Mjy  Friend  the  Tramp. 

a  wife  lying  sick  of  consumption  in  the  next  village,  and 
two  children,  one  of  them  a  cripple,  wandering  in  the  streets 
of  Boston.  I  remember  that  this  tremendous  indictment 
against  Fortune  touched  the  family,  and  that  the  distressed 
fisherman  was  provided  with  clothes,  food,  and  some  small 
change.  The  food  and  small  change  had  disappeared,  but 
the  garments  for  the  consumptive  wife,  where  were  they  ? 
He  had  been  using  them  for  a  pillow. 

I  instantly  pointed  out  this  fact,  and  charged  him  with 
the  deception.  To  my  surprise  he  took  it  quietly  and  even 
a  little  complacently.  "  Bedad,  yer  roight ;  ye  see,  sur 
(confidentially),  ye  see,  sur,  until  I  get  wurruk — and  it's 
wurruk  I'm  lukin'  for — I  have  to  desave  now  and  thin  to 
shute  the  locality.  Ah,  God  save  us,  but  on  the  say-coast 
thay'r  that  harrud  upon  thim  that  don't  belong  to  the  say." 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  a  strong,  healthy  man  like  him 
might  have  found  work  somewhere  between  Milwaukee  and 
Boston. 

"Ah,  but  ye  see  I  got  free  passage  on  a  freight  train, 
and  didn't  sthop.  It  was  in  the  Aist  that  I  expicted  to 
find  wurruk." 

"  Have  you  any  trade  ?  " 

"  Trade,  is  it  ?  I'm  a  brickmaker,  God  knows,  and 
many's  the  lift  I've  had  at  makin'  bricks  in  Milwaukee. 
Sure,  I've  as  aisy  a  hand  at  it  as  any  man.  Maybe  yer 
honour  might  know  of  a  kill  hereabout  ?  " 

Now,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  there  was  not  a  brick- 
kiln within  fifty  miles  of  that  spot,  and  of  all  unlikely  places 
to  find  one  would  have  been  this  sandy  peninsula,  given  up 
to  the  summer  residences  of  a  few  wealthy  people.  Yet  I 
could  not  help  admiring  the  assumption  of  the  scamp,  who 
knew  this  fact  as  well  as  myself.  But  I  said,  "  I  can 
give  you  work  for  a  day  or  two,"  and,  bidding  him  gather 
up  his  sick  wife's  apparel,  led  the  way  across  the  downs  to 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  435 

my  cottage  At  first  I  think  the  offer  took  him  by  surprise, 
and  gave  him  some  consternation,  but  he  presently  recovered 
his  spirits,  and  almost  instantly  his  speech.  "Ah,  wurruk, 
is  it?  God  be  praised  ;  it's  meself  that's  ready  and  willin', 
'though  maybe  me  hand  is  spoilt  wid  brickmaking." 

I  assured  him  that  the  work  I  would  give  him  would 
require  no  delicate  manipulation,  and  so  we  fared  on  over 
the  sleepy  downs.  But  I  could  not  help  noticing  that, 
although  an  invalid,  I  was  a  much  better  pedestrian  than 
my  companion,  frequently  leaving  him  behind,  and  that, 
even  as  a  "tramp,"  he  was  etymologically  an  impostor. 
He  had  a  way  of  lingering  beside  the  fences  we  had  to 
climb  over  as  if  to  continue  more  confidentially  the  history 
of  his  misfortunes  and  troubles,  which  he  was  delivering  to 
me  during  our  homeward  walk,  and  I  noticed  that  he  could 
seldom  resist  the  invitation  of  a  mossy  boulder  or  a  tussock 
of  salt  grass.  "  Ye  see,  sur,"  he  would  say,  suddenly  sitting 
down,  "  it's  along  uv  me  misfortunes  beginning  in  Mil- 
waukee that " — and  it  was  not  until  I  was  out  of  hearing 
that  he  would  languidly  gather  his  traps  again  and  saunter 
after  me.  When  I  reached  my  own  garden  gate  he  leaned 
for  a  moment  over  it,  with  both  of  his  powerful  arms  ex- 
tended downwards  and  said,  "Ah,  but  it's  a  blessin'  that 
Sunday  comes  to  give  rest  fur  the  wake  and  the  weary,  and 
thim  as  walks  sivinteen  miles  to  get  it."  Of  course  I  took 
the  hint.  There  was  evidently  no  work  to  be  had  from  my 
friend  the  Tramp  that  day.  Yet  his  countenance  brightened 
as  he  saw  the  limited  extent  of  my  domain,  and  observed 
that  the  garden,  so-called,  was  only  a  flower  bed  about 
twenty-five  by  ten.  As  he  had  doubtless  before  this  been 
utilised  to  the  extent  of  his  capacity  in  digging,  he  had  pro- 
bably expected  that  kind  of  work,  and  I  daresay  I  discom- 
fited him  by  pointing  him  to  an  almost  levelled  stone  wall 
about  twenty  feet  long,  with  the  remark  that  his  work  would 


436  My  Friend  the  Tramp. 

be  the  rebuilding  of  that  stone  wall  with  stone  brought  from 
the  neighbouring  slopes.  In  a  few  moments  he  was  comfort- 
ably provided  for  in  the  kitchen,  where  the  cook,  a  woman 
of  his  own  nativity,  apparently  "  chaffed  "  him  with  a  raillery 
that  was  to  me  quite  unintelligible.  Yet  I  noticed  that 
when,  at  sunset,  he  accompanied  Bridget  to  the  spring  for 
water,  ostentatiously  flourishing  the  empty  bucket  in  his 
hand,  when  they  returned  in  the  gloaming  Bridget  was 
carrying  the  water,  and  my  friend  the  Tramp  was  some 
paces  behind  her  cheerfully  "colloguing,"  and  picking 
blackberries. 

At  7  the  next  morning  he  started  in  cheerfully  to  work. 
At  9  A.M.  he  had  placed  three  large  stones  on  the  first 
course  in  position,  an  hour  having  been  spent  in  looking  for 
a  pick  and  hammer,  and  in  the  intervals  "  chaffing  "  with 
Bridget.  At  10  o'clock  I  went  to  overlook  his  work ;  it 
was  a  rash  action,  as  it  caused  him  to  respectfully  doff  his 
hat,  discontinue  his  labours,  and  lean  back  against  the  fence 
in  cheerful  and  easy  conversation.  "  Are  ye  fond  uv  black- 
berries, Captain  ? "  I  told  him  that  the  children  were  in 
the  habit  of  getting  them  from  the  meadow  beyond — hoping 
to  estop  the  suggestion  I  knew  was  coming.  "Ah,  but 
Captain,  it's  meself  that  with  wandering  and  havin'  nothin' 
to  pass  me  lips  but  the  berries  I'd  pick  from  the  hedges — 
it's  meself  knows  where  to  find  thim.  Shure,  it's  yer  childer, 
and  foine  boys  they  are,  Captain,  that  are  besaching  me  to 
go  wid  'em  to  the  place,  knownst  only  to  meself."  It  is 
unnecessary  to  say  that  he  triumphed.  After  the  manner  of 
vagabonds  of  all  degrees,  he  had  enlisted  the  women  and 
children  on  his  side — and  my  friend  the  Tramp  had  his  own 
way.  He  departed  at  n  and  returned  at  4  P.M.  with  a  tin 
dinner-pail  half  filled.  On  interrogating  the  boys  it  appeared 
that  they  had  had  "a  bully  time,"  but  on  cross-examination 
it  came  out  that  they  had  picked  the  berries.  From  4  to  6 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  437 

three  more  stones  were  laid,  and  the  arduous  labours  of  the 
day  were  over.  As  I  stood  looking  at  the  first  course  of  six 
stones,  my  friend  the  Tramp  stretched  his  strong  arms  out 
to  their  fullest  extent  and  said,  "  Ay,  but  it's  wurruk  that's 
good  fur  me ;  gin  me  wurruk,  and  it's  all  I'll  be  askin'  fur." 

I  ventured  to  suggest  that  he  had  not  yet  accomplished 
much. 

"Wait  till  to-morror.  Ah,  but  ye'll  see  thin.  It's  me 
hand  that's  yet  onaisy  wid  brickmaking  and  sthrange  to  the 
shtones.  Av  ye'll  wait  till  to-morror  ?  " 

Unfortunately  I  did  not  wait.  An  engagement  took  me 
away  at  an  early  hour,  and  when  I  rode  up  to  my  cottage 
at  noon  my  eyes  were  greeted  with  the  astonishing  spectacle 
of  my  two  boys  hard  at  work  laying  the  courses  of  the  stone 
wall,  assisted  by  Bridget  and  Norah,  who  were  dragging 
stones  from  the  hillsides,  while  comfortably  stretched  on  the 
top  of  the  wall  lay  my  friend  the  Tramp,  quietly  overseeing 
the  operations  with  lazy  and  humorous  comment.  For  an 
instant  I  was  foolishly  indignant,  but  he  soon  brought  me 
to  my  senses.  "  Shure,  sur,  it's  only  larnin'  the  boys  the 
habits  uv  industhry  I  was — and  may  they  niver  know,  be  the 
same  token,  what  is  it  to  wurruk  for  the  bread  betune  their 
lips.  Shure  it's  but  makin'  em  think  it  play,  I  was.  As 
fur  the  colleens  beyint  in  the  kitchen,  shure  isn't  it  betther 
they  was  helping  your  honour  here  than  colloguing  with 
themselves  inside  ?  " 

Nevertheless,  I  thought  it  expedient  to  forbid  henceforth 
any  interruption  of  servants  or  children  with  my  friend's 
"wurruk."  Perhaps  it  was  the  result  of  this  embargo  that 
the  next  morning  early  the  Tramp  wanted  to  see  me. 

"  And  it's  sorry  I  am  to  say  it  to  ye,  sur,"  he  began, 
"  but  it's  the  handlin'  of  this  stun  that's  desthroyin'  me  touch 
at  the  brickmakin',  and  it's  better  I  should  lave  ye  and 
find  wurruk  at  me  own  thrade.  For  it's  wurruk  I'm  nadin'. 


438  My  Friend  the  Tramp. 

It  isn't  meself,  Captin,  to  ate  the  bread  of  oidleness  here. 
And  so  good-bye  to  ye,  and  if  it's  fifty  cints  ye  can  be  givin* 
me  ontil  I'll  find  a  kill— it's  God  that'll  repay  ye." 

He  got  the  money.  But  he  got  also  conditionally  a  note 
from  me  to  my  next  neighbour,  a  wealthy  retired  physician, 
possessed  of  a  large  domain — a  man  eminently  practical 
and  business-like  in  his  management  of  it.  He  employed 
many  labourers  on  the  sterile  waste  he  called  his  "  farm," 
and  it  occurred  to  me  that  if  there  really  was  any  work  in 
my  friend  the  Tramp,  which  my  own  indolence  and  pre- 
occupation had  failed  to  bring  out,  he  was  the  man  to 
do  it 

I  met  him  a  week  after.  It  was  with  some  embarrass- 
ment that  I  inquired  after  my  friend  the  Tramp.  "Oh, 
yes,"  he  said  reflectively,  "  let's  see — he  came  Monday  and 
left  me  Thursday.  He  was,  I  think,  a  stout,  strong  man, 
a  well-meaning,  good-humoured  fellow,  but  afflicted  with  a 
most  singular  variety  of  diseases.  The  first  day  I  put  him 
at  work  in  the  stables  he  developed  chills  and  fever  caught 
in  the  swamps  of  Louisiana" 

"  Excuse  me,"  I  said  hurriedly — "  you  mean  in  Mil- 
waukee ! " 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,"  returned  the  doctor 
testily  ;  "  he  told  me  his  whole  wretched  story  ;  his  escape 
from  the  Confederate  service;  the  attack  upon  him  by 
armed  negroes ;  his  concealment  in  the  bayous  and 
swamps  " 

"  Go  on,  doctor,"  I  said  feebly ;  "  you  were  speaking 
of  his  work." 

"  Yes — well  his  system  was  full  of  malaria ;  the  first  day 
I  had  him  wrapped  up  in  blankets  and  dosed  with  quinine. 
The  next  day  he  was  taken  with  all  the  symptoms  of 
cholera  morbus,  and  I  had  to  keep  him  up  on  brandy  and 
capsicum.  Rheumatism  set  in  on  the  following  day  and 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  439 

incapacitated  him  for  work,  and  I  concluded  I  had  better 
give  him  a  note  to  the  director  of  the  City  Hospital  than 
keep  him  here.  As  a  pathological  study  he  was  good,  but 
as  I  was  looking  for  a  man  to  help  about  the  stable  I 
couldn't  afford  to  keep  him  in  both  capacities." 

As  I  never  could  really  tell  when  the  doctor  was  in  joke 
or  in  earnest  I  dropped  the  subject.  And  so  my  friend 
the  Tramp  gradually  faded  from  my  memory,  not,  however, 
without  leaving  behind  him  in  the  barn,  where  he  had 
slept,  a  lingering  flavour  of  whisky,  onions,  and  fluffmess. 
But  in  two  weeks  this  had  gone,  and  the  "  Shebang "  (as 
my  friends  irreverently  termed  my  habitation)  knew  him  no 
more.  Yet  it  was  pleasant  to  think  of  him  as  having  at 
last  found  a  job  at  brickmaking,  or  having  returned  to  his 
family  at  Milwaukee,  or  making  his  Louisiana  home  once 
more  happy  with  his  presence,  or  again  tempting  the  fish- 
producing  main — this  time  with  a  noble  and  equitable 
captain. 

It  was  a  lovely  August  morning  when  I  rode  across  the 
sandy  peninsula  to  visit  a  certain  noted  family,  whereof  all 
the  sons  were  valiant  and  the  daughters  beautiful.  The 
front  of  the  house  was  deserted,  but  on  the  rear  veranda 
I  heard  the  rustle  of  gowns,  and  above  it  arose  what  seemed 
to  be  the  voice  of  Ulysses,  reciting  his  wanderings.  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  voice — it  was  my  friend  the  Tramp  ! 

From  what  I  could  hastily  gather  from  his  speech,  he 
had  walked  from  St.  John,  N.  B.,  to  rejoin  a  distressed  wife 
in  New  York,  who  was,  however,  living  with  opulent  but 
objectionable  relatives.  "An'  shure,  miss,  I  wouldn't  be 
asking  ye  the  loan  of  a  cint  if  I  could  get  wurruk  at  me 
trade  of  carpet- wavin' — and  maybe  ye  know  of  some  manu- 
facthory  where  they  wave  carpets  beyant  here.  Ah,  miss, 
and  if  ye  don't  give  me  a  cint,  it's  enough  for  the  loikes  of 
me  to  know  that  me  troubles  has  brought  the  tears  in  the 


44-O  My  Friend  the  Tramp. 

most  beautiful  oiyes  in  the  wurruld,  and  God  bless  ye  for 
it,  miss ! " 

Now  I  knew  that  the  Most  Beautiful  Eyes  in  the  World 
belonged  to  one  of  the  most  sympathetic  and  tenderest 
hearts  in  the  world,  and  I  felt  that  common  justice  de- 
manded my  interference  between  it  and  one  of  the  biggest 
scamps  in  the  world.  So,  without  waiting  to  be  announced 
by  the  servant,  I  opened  the  door  and  joined  the  group  on 
the  veranda. 

If  I  expected  to  touch  the  conscience  of  my  friend  the 
Tramp  by  a  dramatic  entrance,  I  failed  utterly !  For  no 
sooner  did  he  see  me  than  he  instantly  gave  vent  to  a  howl 
of  delight,  and,  falling  on  his  knees  before  me,  grasped  my 
hand  and  turned  oratorically  to  the  ladies. 

"  Oh,  but  it's  himself — himself  that  has  come  as  a  witness 
to  me  charackther  !  oh,  but  it's  himself  that  lifted  me  four 
wakes  ago,  when  I  was  lyin'  with  a  mortal  wakeness  on  the 
say-coast  and  tuk  me  to  his  house.  Oh,  but  it's  himself  that 
shupported  me  over  the  faldes,  and  whin  the  chills  and  faver 
came  on  me  and  I  shivered  wid  the  cold,  it  was  himself, 
God  bless  him,  as  sthripped  the  coat  off  his  back,  and  giv 
it  me,  sayin',  '  Tak  it,  Dinnis,  it's  shtarved  with  the  cowld 
say  air,  ye'll  be  entoirly.'  Ah,  but  look  at  him — will  ye, 
miss  !  Look  at  his  swate,  modist  face — a-blushin'  like  your 
own,  miss.  Ah  !  look  at  him,  will  ye  ?  He'll  be  denyin'  of 
it  in  a  minit — may  the  blessin'  uv  God  folly  him.  Look  at 
him,  miss  !  Ah,  but  it's  a  swate  pairye'd  make  ! — (the  rascal 
knew  I  was  a  married  man).  Ah,  miss,  if  ye  could  see  him 
wroightin'  day  and  night  with  such  an  illigant  hand  of  his 
own — (he  had  evidently  believed  from  the  gossip  of  my 
servants  that  I  was  a  professor  of  chirography) — if  ye  could 
see  him,  miss,  as  I  have,  ye'd  be  proud  of  him." 

He  stopped  out  of  breath.  I  was  so  completely  astounded 
I  could  say  nothing ;  the  tremendous  indictment  I  had  framed 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  441 

to  utter  as  I  opened  the  door  vanished  completely.  And  as 
the  Most  Beautiful  Eyes  in  the  Wurruld  turned  gratefully  to 
mine — well — 

I  still  retained  enough  principle  to  ask  the  ladies  to  with- 
draw, while  I  would  take  upon  myself  the  duty  of  examining 
into  the  case  of  my  friend  the  Tramp  and  giving  him  such 
relief  as  was  required.  (I  did  not  know  until  afterward,  how- 
ever, that  the  rascal  had  already  despoiled  their  scant  purses 
of  $3.50.)  When  the  door  was  closed  upon  them  I  turned 
upon  him. 

"  You  infernal  rascal ! " 

"Ah,  Captin,  and  would  ye  be  refusin'  me  a  carrakther 
and  me  givin  ye  such  a  one  as  Oi  did  ?  God  save  us  !  but 
if  ye'd  hav'  seen  the  luk  that  the  purty  one  give  me.  Well, 
befpre  the  chills  and  faver  bruk  me  spirits  entirely,  when  I 
was  a  young  man,  and  makin'  me  tin  dollars  a  week  brick- 
makin',  it's  meself  that  wud  hav  given  " 

"  I  consider,"  I  broke  in,  "that  a  dollar  is  a  fair  price  for 
your  story,  and  as  I  shall  have  to  take  it  all  back  and  expose 
you  before  the  next  twenty-four  hours  pass,  I  think  you  had 
better  hasten  to  Milwaukee,  New  York,  or  Louisiana." 

I  handed  him  the  dollar.  "  Mind,  I  don't  want  to  see 
your  face  again." 

"  Ye  wun't,  Captin." 

And  I  did  not. 

But  it  so  chanced  that  later  in  the  season,  when  the 
migratory  inhabitants  had  flown  to  their  hot-air  registers  in 
Boston  and  Providence,  I  breakfasted  with  one  who  had 
lingered.  It  was  a  certain  Boston  lawyer — replete  with  prin- 
ciple, honesty,  self-discipline,  statistics,  aesthetics,  and  a  per- 
fect consciousness  of  possessing  all  these  virtues,  and  a  full 
recognition  of  their  market  values.  I  think  he  tolerated  me 
as  a  kind  of  foreigner,  gently  but  firmly  waiving  all  argument 
on  any  topic,  frequently  distrusting  my  facts,  generally  my 


44  2  My  Friend  the  Tramp. 

deductions,  and  always  my  ideas.  In  conversation  he  always 
appeared  to  descend  only  half-way  down  a  long  moral  and 
intellectual  staircase,  and  always  delivered  his  conclusions 
over  the  balusters. 

I  had  been  speaking  of  my  friend  the  Tramp.  "  There 
is  but  one  way  of  treating  that  class  of  impostors  ;  it  is  simply 
to  recognise  the  fact  that  the  law  calls  him  a  *  vagrant,' 
and  makes  his  trade  a  misdemeanour.  Any  sentiment  on 
the  other  side  renders  youparticeps  criminis.  I  don't  know 
but  an  action  would  lie  against  you  for  encouraging  tramps. 
Now,  I  have  an  efficacious  way  of  dealing  with  these  gentry." 
He  rose  and  took  a  double-barrelled  fowling-piece  from  the 
chimney.  "  When  a  tramp  appears  on  my  property  I  warn 
him  off.  If  he  persists  I  fire  on  him — as  I  would  on  any 
criminal  trespasser." 

"  Fire  on  him  ?  "  I  echoed  in  alarm. 

"  Yes — but  with  powder  only  1  Of  course  he  doesn't  know 
that.  But  he  doesn't  come  back." 

It  struck  me  for  the  first  time  that  possibly  many  other  of 
my  friend's  arguments  might  be  only  blank  cartridges,  and 
used  to  frighten  off  other  trespassing  intellects. 

"Of  course,  if  the  Tramp  still  persisted  I  would  be  justi- 
fied in  using  shot.  Last  evening  I  had  a  visit  from  one. 
He  was  coming  over  the  wall  My  shotgun  was  efficacious  : 
you  should  have  seen  him  run  ! " 

It  was  useless  to  argue  with  so  positive  a  mind  and  I 
dropped  the  subject.  After  breakfast  I  strolled  over  the 
downs,  my  friend  promising  to  join  me  as  soon  as  he  had 
arranged  some  household  business. 

It  was  a  lovely,  peaceful  morning,  not  unlike  the  day  when 
I  first  met  my  friend  the  Tramp.  The  hush  of  a  great  Bene- 
diction lay  on  land  and  sea.  A  few  white  sails  twinkled  afar, 
but  sleepily — one  or  two  large  ships  were  creeping  in  lazily— 
like  my  friend  the  Tramp.  A  voice  behind  me  startled  me. 


My  Friend  the  Tramp.  443 

My  host  had  rejoined  me.  His  face,  however,  looked  a 
little  troubled. 

"  I  just  now  learned  something  of  importance,"  he  began ; 
"  it  appears  that  with  all  my  precautions  that  Tramp  has 
visited  my  kitchen  and  the  servants  have  entertained  him. 
Yesterday  morning,  it  appears,  while  I  was  absent  he  had 
the  audacity  to  borrow  my  gun  to  go  duck  shooting.  At  the 
end  of  two  or  three  hours  he  returned  with  two  ducks  and — 
the  gun." 

"That  was,  at  least,  honest" 

«  Yes — but !  That  fool  of  a  girl  says  that,  as  he  handed 
back  the  gun,  he  told  her  it  was  all  right,  and  that  he  had 
loaded  it  up  again  to  save  the  master  trouble." 

I  think  I  showed  my  concern  in  my  face,  for  he  added 
hastily,  "It  was  only  duck  shot — a  few  wouldn't  hurt 
him  ! " 

Nevertheless  we  both  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"I  thought  the  gun  kicked  a  little,"  he  said  at  last 
musingly ;  "  but  the  idea  of — Hallo  !  what's  this  ?  " 

He  had  stopped  before  the  hollow  where  I  had  first  seen 
my  Tramp.  It  was  deserted,  but  on  the  mosses  there  were 
spots  of  blood  and  fragments  of  an  old  gown,  bloodstained, 
as  if  used  for  bandages.  I  looked  at  it  closely  ;  it  was  the 
gown  intended  for  the  consumptive  wife  of  my  friend  the 
Tramp. 

But  my  host  was  already  nervously  tracking  the  blood- 
stains that  on  rock,  moss,  and  boulder  were  steadily  lead- 
ing toward  the  sea.  When  I  overtook  him  at  last  on  the 
shore,  be  was  standing  before  a  flat  rock,  on  which  lay  a 
bundle  I  recognised,  tied  up  in  a  handkerchief,  and  a 
crooked  grape  vine  stick. 

"  He  may  have  come  here  to  wash  his  wounds — salt  is  a 
styptic,"  said  my  host,  who  had  recovered  his  correct  pre- 
cision of  statement. 


444  My  Friend  the  Tramp. 

I  said  nothing,  but  looked  toward  the  sea.  Whatever 
secret  lay  hid  in  its  breast,  it  kept  it  fast.  Whatever  its 
calm  eyes  had  seen  that  summer  night,  it  gave  no  reflection 
now.  It  lay  there  passive,  imperturbable,  and  reticent 
But  my  friend  the  Tramp  was  gone! 


C    445    ) 


a  @>leepmg=Car  flErperience* 

IT  was  in  a  Pullman  sleeping-car  on  a  Western  road. 
After  that  first  plunge  into  unconsciousness  which  the 
weary  traveller  takes  on  getting  into  his  berth,  I  awakened 
to  the  dreadful  revelation  that  I  had  been  asleep  only  two 
hours.  The  greater  part  of  a  long  winter  night  was  before 
me  to  face  with  staring  eyes. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  sleep,  I  lay  there  wondering  a 
number  of  things  :  why,  for  instance,  the  Pullman  sleeping 
car  blankets  were  unlike  other  blankets  ;  why  they  were 
like  squares  cut  out  of  cold  buckwheat  cakes,  and  why  they 
clung  to  you  when  you  turned  over,  and  lay  heavy  on  you 
without  warmth ;  why  the  curtains  before  you  could  not 
have  been  made  opaque,  without  being  so  thick  and  suf- 
focating ;  why  it  would  not  be  as  well  to  sit  up  all  night 
half  asleep  in  an  ordinary  passenger  car  as  to  lie  awake 
all  night  in  a  Pullman  ?  But  the  snoring  of  my  fellow- 
passengers  answered  this  question  in  the  negative. 

With  the  recollection  of  last  night's  dinner  weighing  on 
me  as  heavily  and  coldly  as  the  blankets,  I  began  wonder- 
ing why,  over  the  whole  extent  of  the  continent,  there  was 
no  local  dish  ;  why  the  bill  of  fare  at  restaurant  and  hotel 
was  invariably  only  a  weak  reflex  of  the  metropolitan 
hostelries;  why  the  entr'ees  were  always  the  same,  only 
more  or  less  badly  cooked  ;  why  the  travelling  American 
always  was  supposed  to  demand  turkey  and  cold  cranberry 


446  A  Sleeping-Car  Experience. 

sauce ;  why  the  pretty  waiter  girl  apparently  shuffled  ycwir 
plates  behind  your  back,  and  then  dealt  them  over  your 
shoulder  in  a  semicircle,  as  if  they  were  a  hand  at  cards, 
and  not  always  a  good  one  ?  Why,  having  done  this,  she 
instantly  retired  to  the  nearest  wall,  and  gazed  at  you 
scornfully,  as  one  who  would  say,  "  Fair  sir,  though  lowly, 
I  am  proud;  if  dost  imagine  that  I  would  permit  undue 
familiarity  of  speech,  beware  ! "  And  then  I  began  to  think 
of  and  dread  the  coming  breakfast ;  to  wonder  why  the 
ham  was  always  cut  half  an  inch  thick,  and  why  the  fried 
egg  always  resembled  a  glass  eye  that  visibly  winked  at  you 
with  diabolical  dyspeptic  suggestions;  to  wonder  if  the 
buckwheat  cakes,  the  eating  of  which  requires  a  certain 
degree  of -artistic  preparation  and  deliberation,  would  be 
brought  in  as  usual  one  minute  before  the  train  started. 
And  then  I  had  a  vivid  recollection  of  a  fellow-passenger 
who,  at  a  certain  breakfast  station  in  Illinois,  frantically 
enwrapped  his  portion  of  this  national  pastry  in  his  red 
bandanna  handkerchief,  took  it  into  the  smoking  car,  and 
quietly  devoured  it  en  route. 

Lying  broad  awake,  I  could  not  help  making  some 
observations  which  I  think  are  not  noticed  by  the  day 
traveller.  First,  that  the  speed  of  a  train  is  not  equal  or 
continuous.  That  at  certain  times  the  engine  apparently 
starts  up,  and  says  to  the  baggage  train  behind  it,  "  Come, 
come,  this  won't  do  !  Why,  it's  nearly  half-past  two  ;  how 
in  h — 11  shall  we  get  through  ?  Don't  you  talk  to  me. 
Pooh  !  pooh  ! "  delivered  in  that  rhythmical  fashion  which 
all  meditation  assumes  on  a  railway  train.  Exempli  gratia  : 
One  night,  having  raised  my  window  curtain  to  look  over  a 
moonlit  snowy  landscape,  as  I  pulled  it  down  the  lines  of 
a  popular  comic  song  flashed  across  me.  Fatal  error! 
The  train  instantly  took  it  up,  and  during  the  rest  of  the 
night  I  was  haunted  by  this  awful  refrain  :  "  Pull  down  the 


A  Sleeping-Car  Experience.  447 

bel-lind,  pull  down  the  bel-lind  ;  somebody's  klink.  klink. 
Oh  don't  be  shoo-shoo  ! "  Naturally  this  differs  on  the 
different  railways.  On  the  New  York  Central,  where  the 
road  bed  is  quite  perfect  and  the  steel  rails  continuous,  I 
have  heard  this  irreverent  train  give  the  words  of  a  certain 
popular  revival  hymn  after  this  fashion :  "  Hold  the  fort, 
for  I  am  Sankey,  Moody  slingers  still,  wave  the  swish 
swosh  back  from  klinky,  klinky  klanky  kill."  On  the  New 
York  and  New  Haven,  where  there  are  many  switches,  and 
the  engine  whistles  at  every  cross-road,  I  have  often  heard, 
"  Tommy,  make  room  for  your  whoopy  !  that's  a  little  clang, 
bumpity  bumpity  boopy,  clikitty,  clikitty  clang."  Poetry, 
I  fear,  fared  little  better.  One  starlit  night,  coming  from 
Quebec,  as  we  slipped  by  a  virgin  forest,  the  opening  lines 
of  Evangeline  flashed  upon  me.  But  all  I  could  make  of 
them  was  this  :  "  This  is  the  forest  prim-eval-eval ;  the 
groves  of  the  pines  and  the  hem-locks-locks-locks-locks- 
loooock !  "  The  train  was  only  "  slowing  "  or  "  braking  " 
up  at  a  station.  Hence  the  jar  in  the  metre. 

I  had  noticed  a  peculiar  ^olian  harp-like  cry  that  ran 
through  the  whole  train  as  we  settled  to  rest  at  last  after  a 
long  run — an  almost  sight  of  infinite  relief,  a  musical  sigh 
that  began  in  C  and  ran  gradually  up  to  F  natural,  which 
I  think  most  observant  travellers  have  noticed  day  and 
night.  No  railway  official  has  ever  given  me  a  satisfactory 
explanation  of  it.  As  the  car,  in  a  rapid  run,  is  always 
slightly  projected  forward  of  its  trucks,  a  practical  friend 
once  suggested  to  me  that  it  was  the  gradual  settling  back 
of  the  car  body  to  a  state  of  inertia,  which,  of  course,  every 
poetical  traveller  would  reject.  Four  o'clock — the  sound 
of  boot-blacking  by  the  porter  faintly  apparent  from  the 
toilet  room.  Why  not  talk  to  him  ?  But,  fortunately,  I 
remembered  that  any  attempt  at  extended  conversation 
with  conductor  or  porter  was  always  resented  by  them  as 


448  A  Sleeping-Car  Experience. 

implied  disloyalty  to  the  company  they  represented.  I 
recalled  that  once  I  had  endeavoured  to  impress  upon  a 
conductor  the  absolute  folly  of  a  midnight  inspection  of 
tickets,  and  had  been  treated  by  him  as  an  escaped  lunatic. 
No,  there  was  no  relief  from  this  suffocating  and  insupport- 
able loneliness  to  be  gained  then.  I  raised  the  window 
blind  and  looked  out.  We  were  passing  a  farmhouse.  A 
light,  evidently  the  lantern  of  a  farm  hand,  was  swung 
beside  a  barn.  Yes,  the  faintest  tinge  of  rose  in  the  far 
horizon.  Morning,  surely,  at  last. 

We  had  stopped  at  a  station.  Two  men  had  got  into 
the  car  and  had  taken  seats  in  the  one  vacant  section, 
yawning  occasionally,  and  conversing  in  a  languid,  perfunc- 
tory sort  of  way.  They  sat  opposite  each  other,  occasionally 
looking  out  of  the  window,  but  always  giving  the  stray 
impression  that  they  were  tired  of  each  other's  company. 
As  I  looked  out  of  my  curtains  at  them,  the  One  Man  said 
with  a  feebly  concealed  yawn — 

"Yes,  well,  I  reckon  he  was  at  one  time  as  popler  an 
ondertaker  ez  I  knew." 

The  Other  Man  (inventing  a  question  rather  than  giving 
an  answer,  out  of  some  languid  social  impulse. — But  was 
he — this  yer  ondertaker — a  Christian — hed  he  jined  the 
church  ? 

The  One  Man  (reflectively). — Well,  I  don't  know  ez  you 
might  call  him  a  purfessin'  Christian  ;  but  he  hed — yes,  he 
hed  conviction.  I  think  Dr.  Wylie  hed  him  under  convic- 
tion. Et  least  that  was  the  way  I  got  it  from  him. 

A  long,  dreary  pause.  The  Other  Man  (feeling  it  was 
incumbent  on  him  to  say  something). — But  why  was  he 
popler  ez  an  ondertaker  ? 

The  One  Man  (lazily). — Well,  he  was  kinder  popler  with 
widders  and  widderers — sorter  soothen  'em  a  kinder  keerless 
way ;  slung  'em  suthin'  here  and  there,  sometimes  outer  the 


A  Sleeping-Car  Experience.  449 

Book,  sometimes  outer  himself,  ez  a  man  of  experience  az 
bed  bed  sorror.  Hed,  they  say  (very  cautiously],  lost  three 
wives  hisself,  and  five  children  by  this  yer  new  disease — 
dipthery — out  in  Wisconsin.  I  don't  know  the  facts,  but 
that's  what  got  round. 

The  Other  Man. — But  how  did  he  lose  his  poplarity  ? 

The  One  Man. — Well,  that's  the  question.  You  see  he 
introduced  some  things  into  ondertaking  that  waz  new.  He 
bed,  for  instance,  a  way,  as  he  called  it,  of  manniperlating 
the  features  of  the  deceased. 

The  Other  Man  (quietly). — How  manniperlating  ? 

The  One  Man  (struck  with  a  bright  and  aggressive 
thought). — Look  yer,  did  ye  ever  notiss  how,  generally 
speakin',  onhandsome  a  corpse  is  ? 

The  Other  Man  had  noticed  this  fact. 

The  One  Man  (returning  to  his  fact).— Why,  there  was 
Mary  Peebles,  ez  was  daughter  of  my  wife's  bosom  friend — 
a  mighty  pooty  girl  and  a  perfessing  Christian— died  of 
scarlet  fever.  Well,  that  gal — I  was  one  of  the  mourners, 
being  my  wife's  friend — well,  that  gal,  though  I  hedn't, 
perhaps,  oughter  say — lying  in  that  casket,  fetched  all  the 
way  from  some  A-i  establishment  in  Chicago,  filled  with 
flowers  and  furbelows — didn't  really  seem  to  be  of  much 
account.  Well,  although  my  wife's  friend,  and  me  a 
mourner — well,  now,  I  was — disappointed  and  discour- 
aged. 

The  Other  Man  (in  palpably  affected  sympathy). — Sho ! 
now  ! 

"Yes,  sir!  Well,  you  see,  this  yer  ondertaker — this 
Wilkins — bed  a  way  of  correcting  all  thet.  And  just  by 
manniperlation.  He  worked  over  the  face  of  the  deceased 
ontil  he  perduced  what  the  survivin'  relatives  called  a  look 
of  Resignation — you  know,  a  sort  of  smile,  like.  When  he 
wanted  to  put  in  any  extrys,  he  produced  what  he  called — 

VOL.   III.  2  F 


45°  ^  Sleeping-Car  Experience. 

— hevin'  reglar  charges  for  this  kind  of  work — a  Christian's 
Hope." 

The  Other  Man. — I  want  to  know  ! 

"Yes.  Well,  I  admit,  at  times  it  was  a  little  startlin'. 
And  I've  allers  said  (a  little  confidentially)  that  I  hed  my 
doubts  of  its  being  Scriptooral  or  sacred,  being,  ez  you 
know,  worms  of  the  yearth  ;  and  I  relieved  my  mind  to  our 
pastor,  but  he  didn't  feel  like  interfering  ez  long  ez  it  was 
confined  to  church  membership.  But  the  other  day,  when 
Cy  Dunham  died — you  disremember  Cy  Dunjiam  ?  " 

A  long  interval  of  silence.  The  Other  Man  was  looking 
out  of  the  window,  and  had  apparently  forgotten  his  com- 
panion completely.  But  as  I  stretched  my  head  out  of  the 
curtain  I  saw  four  other  heads  as  eagerly  reached  out  from 
other  berths  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  story.  One  head, 
a  female  one,  instantly  disappeared  on  my  looking  around, 
but  a  certain  tremulousness  of  her  window  curtain  showed 
an  unabated  interest.  The  only  two  utterly  disinterested 
men  were  the  One  Man  and  the  Other  Man. 

The  One  Man  (detaching  himself  languidly  from  the 
window). — Cy  Dunham  ? 

"Yes,  Cy  never  hed  hed  either  convictions  or  per- 
fessions.  Uster  get  drunk  and  go  round  with  permiscous 
women.  Sorter  like  the  prodigal  son,  only  a  little  more  so, 
ez  fur  ez  I  kin  judge  from  the  facks  ez  stated  to  me.  Well 
— Cy  one  day  petered  out  down  at  Little  Rock,  and  was 
sent  up  yer  for  interment  The  fammerly,  being  proud-like, 
of  course  didn't  spare  any  money  on  that  funeral,  and  it 
waz — now  between  you  and  me — about  ez  shapely  and  first- 
class  and  prime-mess  affair  ez  I  ever  saw.  Wilkins  hed  put 
in  his  extrys.  He  hed  put  onto  that  prodigal's  face  the  A-i 
touch — hed  him  fixed  up  with  a  Christian's  Hope.  Wei] — 
it  waz  about  the  turning-point,  for  thar  waz  some  of  the 
members  and  the  pastor  hisself  thought  that  the  line  ort  tc 


A  Sleeping- Car  Experience.  451 

be  drawn  somewhere,  and  thar  waz  some  talk  at  Deacon 
Tibbet's  about  a  reg'lar  conference  meetin'  regardin'  it 
But  it  wazn't  thet  which  made  him  onpoplar." 

Another  silence — no  expression  nor  reflection  from  the 
face  of  the  Other  Man  of  the  least  desire  to  know  what 
ultimately  settled  the  unpopularity  of  the  undertaker.  But 
from  the  curtains  of  the  various  berths  several  eager  and 
one  or  two  even  wrathful  faces,  anxious  for  the  result. 

The  Other  Man  (lazily  recurring  to  the  lost  topic). — Well, 
what  made  him  onpoplar  ? 

The  One  Man  (quietly). — Extrys,  I  think — that  is,  I 
suppose — not  knowin'  (cautiously)  all  the  facts.  When 
Mrs.  Widdecombe  lost  her  husband — 'bout  two  months  ago 
— though  she'd  been  through  the  valley  of  the  shadder  of 
death  twice — this  bein'  her  third  marriage,  hevin'  been 
John  Barker's  widder 

The  Other  Man  (with  an  intense  expression  of  interest). 
— No,  you're  foolin'  me  ! 

The  One  Man  (solemnly). — Ef  I  was  to  appear  before  my 
Maker  to-morrow,  yes  !  she  was  the  widder  of  Barker. 

The  Other  Man.— Well,  I  swow. 

The  One  Man. — Well,  this  widder  Widdecombe,  she  put 
up  a  big  funeral  for  the  deceased.  She  hed  Wilkins,  and 
thet  ondertaker  just  laid  hisself  out.  Just  spread  himself. 
Onfortnately — perhaps  fort'natly  in  the  ways  of  Providence 
— one  of  Widdecombe's  old  friends,  a  doctor  up  thar  in 
Chicago,  comes  down  to  the  funeral.  He  goes  up  with  the 
friends  to  look  at  the  deceased,  smilin'  a  peaceful  sort  of 
heavinly  smile,  and  everybody  sayin'  he's  gone  to  meet  his 
reward,  and  this  yer  friend  turns  round,  short  and  sudden 
on  the  widder  settin'  in  her  pew,  and  kinder  enjoyin',  as 
wimen  will,  all  the  compliments  paid  the  corpse,  and  he 
says,  says  he — 

"  What  did  you  say  your  husband  died  of,  marm  ?  " 


45  2  A  Sleeping- Car  Experience. 

"  Consumption,"  she  says,  wiping  her  eyes,  poor  critter  1 
— "  Consumption — gallopin'  consumption." 

"Consumption  be  d — d,"  sez  he,  bein'  a  profane  kind 
of  Chicago  doctor,  and  not  bein'  ever  under  conviction. 
"  Thet  man  died  of  strychnine.  Look  at  thet  face.  Look 
at  thet  contortion  of  them  facial  muscles.  Thet's  strychnine. 
Thet's  risers  Sardonicus  (thet's  what  he  said ;  he  was  always 
sorter  profane)." 

"  Why,  doctor,"  says  the  widder,  "  thet— thet  is  his  last 
smile.  It's  a  Christian's  resignation." 

"  Thet  be  blowed ;  don't  tell  me,"  sez  he.  "  Hell  is  full 

of  thet  kind  of  resignation.  It's  pizon.  And  I'll" 

Why,  dern  my  skin,  yes  we  are  ;  yes,  it's  Joliet.  Wall,  now, 
who'd  hev  thought  we'd  been  nigh  onto  an  hour. 

Two  or  three  anxious  passengers  from  their  berths :  "  Say ; 
look  yer,  stranger  !  Old  Man  !  What  became  of  "— — 

But  the  One  Man  and  the  Other  Man  had  vanished 


(    453    ) 


Cfje  S@an  tofjose  gofee  toag  not 


HE  was  a  spare  man,  and,  physically,  an  ill-conditioned 
man,  but  at  first  glance  scarcely  a  seedy  man.  The  indi- 
cations of  reduced  circumstances  in  the  male  of  the  better 
class  are,  I  fancy,  first  visible  in  the  boots  and  shirt,  the 
boots  offensively  exhibiting  a  degree  of  polish  inconsistent 
with  their  dilapidated  condition,  and  the  shirt  showing  an 
extent  of  ostentatious  surface  that  is  invariably  fatal  to  the 
threadbare  waistcoat  that  it  partially  covers.  He  was  a  pale 
man,  and  I  fancied  still  paler  from  his  black  clothes. 

He  handed  me  a  note. 

It  was  from  a  certain  physician  ;  a  man  of  broad  culture 
and  broader  experience  ;  a  man  who  had  devoted  the 
greater  part  of  his  active  life  to  the  alleviation  of  sorrow 
and  suffering  ;  a  man  who  had  lived  up  to  the  noble  vows 
of  a  noble  profession  ;  a  man  who  locked  in  his  honourable 
breast  the  secrets  of  a  hundred  families,  whose  face  was  as 
kindly,  whose  touch  was  as  gentle  in  the  wards  of  the  great 
public  hospitals  as  it  was  beside  the  laced  curtains  of  the 
dying  Narcissa;  a  man  who,  through  long  contact  with 
suffering,  had  acquired  a  universal  tenderness  and  breadth  of 
kindly  philosophy  ;  a  man  who,  day  and  night,  was  at  the 
beck  and  call  of  Anguish  ;  a  man  who  never  asked  the 
creed,  belief,  moral  or  worldly  standing  of  the  sufferer,  or 
even  his  ability  to  pay  the  few  coins  that  enabled  him  (the 
physician)  to  exist  and  practise  his  calling  ;  in  brief,  a  man 


454     The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy. 

who  so  nearly  lived  up  to  the  example  of  the  Great  Master 
that  it  seems  strange  I  am  writing  of  him  as  a  doctor  of 
Medicine  and  not  of  Divinity. 

The  note  was  in  pencil,  characteristically  brief,  and  ran 
thus  — 

"Here  is  the  man  I  spoke  of.  He  ought  to  be  good 
material  for  you." 

For  a  moment  I  sat,  looking  from  the  note  to  the  man, 
and  sounding  the  "dim  perilous  depths"  of  my  memory  for 
the  meaning  of  this  mysterious  communication.  The  "  good 
material,"  however,  soon  relieved  my  embarrassment  by 
putting  his  hand  on  his  waistcoat,  coming  toward  me,  and 
saying,  "It's  just  here,  you  can  feel  it." 

It  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  do  so.  In  a  flash  I  remem- 
bered that  my  medical  friend  had  told  me  of  a  certain 
poor  patient,  once  a  soldier  who,  among  his  other  trials 
and  uncertainties,  was  afflicted  with  an  aneurism  caused  by 
the  buckle  of  his  knapsack  pressing  upon  the  arch  of  the 
aorta.  It  was  liable  to  burst  at  any  shock  or  any  moment 
The  poor  fellow's  yoke  had  indeed  been  too  heavy. 

In  the  presence  of  such  a  tremendous  possibility  I  think 
for  an  instant  I  felt  anxious  only  about  myself.  What  / 
should  do ;  how  dispose  of  the  body  ;  how  explain  the 
circumstance  of  his  taking  off;  how  evade  the  ubiquitous 
reporter  and  the  Coroner's  inquest ;  how  a  suspicion  might 
arise  that  I  had  in  some  way,  through  negligence,  or  for 
some  dark  purpose,  unknown  to  the  jury,  precipitated  the 
catastrophe,  all  flashed  before  me.  Even  the  note — with 
its  darkly  suggestive  offer  of  "good  material"  for  me — 
looked  diabolically  significant  What  might  not  an  intelli- 
gent lawyer  make  of  it  ? 

I  tore  it  up  instantly,  and  with  feverish  courtesy  begged 
him  to  be  seated. 

"You  don't  care  to  feel  it?"  he  asked  a  little  anxiously. 


The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy.     455 

"No." 

"Nor  see  it?" 

"  No." 

He  sighed,  a  trifle  sadly,  as  if  I  had  rejected  the  only 
favour  he  could  bestow.  I  saw  at  once  that  he  had  been 
under  frequent  exhibition  to  the  doctors,  and  that  he  was, 
perhaps,  a  trifle  vain  of  this  attention.  This  perception 
was  corroborated  a  moment  later  by  his  producing  a  cop> 
of  a  medical  magazine,  with  the  remark  that  on  the  sixth 
page  I  would  find  a  full  statement  of  his  case. 

Could  I  serve  him  in  any  way  ?  I  asked. 

It  appeared  that  I  could.  If  I  could  help  him  to  any 
light  employment,  something  that  did  not  require  any 
great  physical  exertion  or  mental  excitement,  he  would  be 
thankful.  But  he  wanted  me  to  understand  that  he  was  not, 
strictly  speaking,  a  poor  man*;  that  some  years  before  the 
discovery  of  his  fatal  complaint  he  had  taken  out  a  life 
insurance  policy  for  $5000,  and  that  he  had  raked  and 
scraped  enough  together  to  pay  it  up,  and  that  he  would 
not  leave  his  wife  and  four  children  destitute.  "  You  see," 
he  added,  "  if  I  could  find  some  sort  of  light  work  to  do, 
and  kinder  sled  along  you  know — until " 

He  stopped  awkwardly. 

I  have  heard  several  noted  actors  thrill  their  audiences 
with  a  single  phrase.  I  think  I  never  was  as  honestly 
moved  by  any  spoken  word  as  that  " until"  or  the  pause 
that  followed  it.  He  was  evidently  quite  unconscious  of  its 
effect,  for  as  I  took  a  seat  beside  him  on  the  sofa,  and 
looked  more  closely  in  his  waxen  face,  I  could  see  that  he 
was  evidently  embarrassed,  and  would  have  explained  him- 
self further  if  I  had  not  stopped  him. 

Possibly  it  was  the  dramatic  idea,  or  possibly  chance,  but 
a  few  days  afterwards,  meeting  a  certain  kind-hearted  thea- 
trical manager,  I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  light  employment 


456     The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy. 

for  a  man  who  was  an  invalid.  "  Can  he  walk  ?  "  "  Yes.'1 
"Stand  up  for  fifteen  minutes?"  Yes."  "Then  111  take 
him.  He'll  do  for  the  last  scene  in  the  '  Destruction  of 
Sennacherib  ' — it's  a  tremendous  thing,  you  know,  we'll  have 
2000  people  on  the  stage."  I  was  a  trifle  alarmed  at  the 
title  and  ventured  to  suggest  (without  betraying  my  poor 
friend's  secret)  that  he  could  not  actively  engage  in  the 
"  Destruction  of  Sennacherib,"  and  that  even  the  spectacle  of 
it  might  be  too  much  for  him.  "  Needn't  see  it  at  all,"  said 
my  managerial  friend,  "  put  him  in  front,  nothing  to  do  but 
march  in  and  march  out,  and  dodge  curtain." 

He  was  engaged.  I  admit  I  was  at  times  haunted  by 
grave  doubts  as  to  whether  I  should  not  have  informed  the 
manager  of  his  physical  condition,  and  the  possibility  that 
he  might  some  evening  perpetrate  a  real  tragedy  on  the 
mimic  stage,  but  on  the  first  performance  of  "The 
Destruction  of  Sennacherib,"  which  I  conscientiously 
attended,  I  was  somewhat  relieved.  I  had  often  been 
amused  with  the  placid  way  in  which  the  chorus  in  the 
opera  invariably  received  the  most  astounding  information, 
and  witnessed  the  most  appalling  tragedies  by  poison  or 
the  block  without  anything  more  than  a  vocal  protest  or 
command  always  delivered  to  the  audience,  and  never  to 
the  actors,  but  I  think  my  poor  friend's  utter  impassiveness 
to  the  wild  carnage  and  the  terrible  exhibitions  of  incen- 
diarism that  were  going  on  around  him  transcended  even 
that.  Dressed  in  a  costume  that  seemed  to  be  the  very 
soul  of  anachronism,  he  stood  a  little  outside  the  proscenium, 
holding  a  spear,  the  other  hand  pressed  apparently  upon 
the  secret  within  his  breast,  calmly  surveying,  with  his  waxen 
face,  the  gay  auditorium.  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 
there  was  a  certain  pride  visible  even  in  his  placid  features, 
as  of  one  who  was  conscious  that  at  any  moment  he  might 
change  this  simulated  catastrophe  into  real  terror.  I  could 


The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy.     457 

not  help  saying  this  to  the  doctor,  who  was  with  me. 
"Yes,"  he  said,  with  professional  exactitude,  "when  it 
happens  he'll  throw  his  arms  up  above  his  head,  utter  an 
ejaculation,  and  fall  forward  on  his  face — it's  a  singular 
thing,  they  always  fall  forward  on  their  face — and  they'll 
pick  up  the  man  as  dead  as  Julius  Caesar." 

After  that,  I  used  to  go  night  after  night,  with  a  certain 
hideous  fascination ;  but,  while  it  will  be  remembered  the 
"Destruction  of  Sennacherib"  had  a  tremendous  run,  it 
will  also  be  remembered  that  not  a  single  life  was  really 
lost  during  its  representation. 

It  was  only  a  few  weeks  after  this  modest  first  appearance 
on  the  boards  of  "The  Man  with  an  Aneurism"  that, 
happening  to  be  at  a  dinner  party  of  practical  business  men, 
I  sought  to  interest  them  with  the  details  of  the  above  story, 
delivered  with  such  skill  and  pathos  as  I  could  command. 
I  regret  to  say  that,  as  a  pathetic  story,  it  for  a  moment 
seemed  to  be  a  dead  failure.  At  last  a  prominent  banker 
sitting  next  to  me  turned  to  me  with  the  awful  question, 
"  Why  don't  your  friend  try  to  realise  on  his  life  insurance  ?  " 
I  begged  his  pardon  ;  I  didn't  quite  understand.  "  Oh,  dis- 
count, sell  out.  Look  here — (after  a  pause).  Let  him 
assign  his  policy  to  me — it's  not  much  of  a  risk,  on  your 
statement.  Well — I'll  give  him  his  five  thousand  dollars, 
clear." 

And  he  did.  Under  the  advice  of  this  cool-headed — I 
think  I  may  add  warmhearted — banker,  "The  Man  with 
an  Aneurism  "  invested  his  money  in  the  name  of  and  for 
the  benefit  of  his  wife  in  certain  securities  that  paid  him  a 
small  but  regular  stipend.  But  he  still  continued  upon  the 
boards  of  the  theatre. 

By  reason  of  some  business  engagements  that  called  me 
away  from  the  city,  I  did  not  see  my  friend  the  physician 
for  three  months  afterward.  When  I  did  I  asked  tidings 


458     The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy. 

of  the  Man  with  the  Aneurism.  The  doctor's  kind  face 
grew  sad.  "  I'm  afraid — that  is,  I  don't  exactly  know 
whether  I've  good  news  or  bad.  Did  you  ever  see  his 
wife  ?  " 

I  never  had. 

"  Well,  she  was  younger  than  he,  and  rather  attractive, 
one  of  those  doll-faced  women.  You  remember,  he  settled 
that  life  insurance  policy  on  her  and  the  children ;  she 
might  have  waited.  She  didn't.  The  other  day  she  eloped 
with  some  fellow,  I  don't  remember  his  name,  with  the 
children  and  the  five  thousand  dollars." 

"  And  the  shock  killed  him,"  I  said,  with  poetic  prompti- 
tude. 

"No — that  is — not  yet;  I  saw  him  yesterday,"  said  the 
doctor,  with  conscientious  professional  precision,  looking 
over  his  list  of  calls. 

"  Well,  where  is  the  poor  fellow  now  ?  " 

"  He's  still  at  the  theatre.  James,  if  these  powders  are 
called  for,  you'll  find  them  here  in  this  envelope.  Tell 
Mrs.  Blank  I'll  be  there  at  seven — and  she  can  give  the 
baby  this  until  I  come.  Say  there's  no  danger.  These 
women  are  an  awful  bother !  Yes,  he's  at  the  theatre  yet. 
Which  way  are  you  going  ?  Down  town  ?  Why  can't  you 
step  into  my  carriage,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lift,  and  we'll  talk 
on  the  way  down  ?  Well — he's  at  the  theatre  yet.  And — 
and — do  you  remember  the  '  Destruction  of  Sennacherib '  ? 
No  ?  Yes  you  do.  You  remember  that  woman  in  pink, 
who  pirouetted  in  the  famous  ballet  scene !  You  don't  ? 
Why  yes,  you  do  !  Well,  I  imagine,  of  course  I  don't 
know — it's  only  a  summary  diagnosis,  but  I  imagine  that 
our  friend  with  the  aneurism  has  attached  himself  to  her." 

"  Doctor,  you  horrify  me." 

"  There  are  more  things,  Mr.  Poet,  in  heaven  and  earth 
than  are  yet  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.  Listen.  My 


The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  Easy.     459 

diagnosis  may  be  wrong,  but  that  woman  called  the  other 
day  at  my  office  to  ask  about  him,  his  health,  and  general 
condition.  I  told  her  the  truth — and  sho.  fainted.  It  was 
about  as  dead  a  faint  as  I  ever  saw ;  I  was  nearly  an  hour 
in  bringing  her  out  of  it.  Of  course  it  was  the  heat  of  the 
room,  her  exertions  the  preceding  week,  and  I  prescribed 
for  her.  Queer,  wasn't  it  ?  Now,  if  I  were  a  writer,  and 
had  your  faculty,  I'd  make  something  of  that." 

"  But  how  is  his  general  health  ?  " 

"Oh,  about  the  same.  He  can't  evade  what  will  come, 
you  know,  at  any  moment  He  was  up  here  the  other  day. 
Why  the  pulsation  was  as  plain —why  the  entire  arch  of 
the  aorta — What,  you  get  out  here  ?  Good-bye." 

Of  course  no  moralist,  no  man  writing  for  a  sensitive 
and  strictly  virtuous  public,  could  further  interest  himself 
in  this  man.  So  I  dismissed  him  at  once  from  my  mind, 
and  returned  to  the  literary  contemplation  of  virtue  that 
was  clearly  and  positively  defined,  and  of  Sin  that  invariably 
commenced  with  a  capital  letter.  That  this  man,  in  his 
awful  condition,  hovering  on  the  verge  of  eternity,  should 
allow  himself  to  be  attracted  by — but  it  was  horrible  to 
contemplate. 

Nevertheless,  a  month  afterward  I  was  returning  from  a 
festivity  with  my  intimate  friend  Smith,  my  distinguished 
friend  Jobling,  my  most  respectable  friend  Robinson,  and 
my  wittiest  friend  Jones.  It  was  a  clear,  starlit  morning, 
and  we  seemed  to  hold  the  broad,  beautiful  avenue  to  our- 
selves, and  I  fear  we  acted  as  if  it  were  so.  As  we  hilariously 
passed  the  corner  of  Eighteenth  Street,  a  coupe  rolled  by,  and 
I  suddenly  heard  my  name  called  from  its  gloomy  depths. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  doctor,  as  the  driver  drew 
tip  on  the  sidewalk,  "  but  I've  some  news  for  you.  I've 

just  been  to  see  our  poor  friend .  Of  course  I  was  too 

late.  He  was  gone  in  a  flash." 


460     The  Man  whose  Yoke  was  not  E  •  _. , 

"What,  dead?" 

"  As  Pharaoh  !  In  an  instant,  just  as  I  said.  You  see 
the  rupture  took  place  in  the  descending  arch  of" 

"But,  doctor!" 

"  It's  a  queer  story.  Am  I  keeping  you  from  your  friends  ? 
No  ?  Well,  you  see  she — that  woman  I  spoke  of — had 
written  a  note  to  him  based  on  what  I  had  told  her.  He 
got  it,  and  dropped  in  his  dressing  room,  dead  as  a  herring." 

"  How  could  she  have  been  so  cruel,  knowing  his  con- 
dition ;  she  might,  with  woman's  tact,  have  rejected  him  less 
abruptly." 

"  Yes,  but  you're  all  wrong.  By  Jove  she  accepted  him  ! 
— was  willing  to  marry  him  !  " 

"What?" 

"  Yes — don't  you  see  ?  It  was  joy  that  killed  him.  Gad, 
we  never  thought  of  that  I  Queer,  ain't  it.  See  here, 
don't  you  think  you  might  make  a  story  out  of  it?" 

"  But,  doctor,  it  hasn't  got  any  moral." 

"Humph!    That's  so.    Good  morning.    Drive  on,  John." 


HE  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  the  "  Remus  Sentinel* 

I  replied  that  I  had  not,  and  would  have  added  that  I 
did  not  even  know  where  Remus  was,  when  he  continued 
by  saying  it  was  strange  the  hotel  proprietor  did  not  keep 
the  "  Sentinel "  on  his  files,  and  that  he  himself  should  write 
to  the  editor  about  it.  He  would  not  have  spoken  about 
it,  but  he  himself  had  been  a  humble  member  of  the 
profession  to  which  I  belonged,  and  had  often  written  for 
its  columns.  Some  friends  of  his — partial,  no  doubt — had 
said  that  his  style  somewhat  resembled  Junius's ;  but  of 
course,  you  know — well,  what  he  could  say  was  that  in  the 
last  campaign  his  articles  were  widely  sought  for.  He  did 
not  know  but  he  had  a  copy  of  one.  Here  his  hand  dived 
into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  with  a  certain  deftness 
that  indicated  long  habit,  and  after  depositing  on  his  lap  a 
bundle  of  well-worn  documents,  every  one  of  which  was 
glaringly  suggestive  of  certificates  and  signatures,  he  con- 
cluded he  had  left  it  in  his  trunk. 

I  breathed  more  freely.  We  were  sitting  in  the  rotunda 
of  a  famous  Washington  hotel,  and  only  a  few  moments 
before  had  the  speaker,  an  utter  stranger  to  me,  moved  his 
chair  beside  mine  and  opened  a  conversation.  I  noticed 
that  he  had  that  timid,  lonely,  helpless  air  which  invests  the 
bucolic  traveller  who,  for  the  first  time,  finds  himself  among 
strangers,  and  his  identity  lost,  in  a  world  so  much  larger, 


462  The  Office- Seeker. 

so  much  colder,  so  much  more  indifferent  to  him  than  he 
ever  imagined.  Indeed,  I  think  that  what  we  often  attribute 
to  the  impertinent  familiarity  of  countrymen  and  rustic 
travellers  on  railways  or  in  cities  is  largely  due  to  their 
awful  loneliness  and  nostalgia.  I  remember  to  have  once 
met  in  a  smoking-car  on  a  Kansas  railway  one  of  these 
lonely  ones,  who,  after  plying  me  with  a  thousand  useless 
questions,  finally  elicited  the  fact  that  I  knew  slightly  a 
man  who  had  once  dwelt  in  his  native  town  in  Illinois. 
During  the  rest  of  our  journey  the  conversation  turned 
chiefly  upon  this  fellow-townsman,  whom  it  afterwards 
appeared  that  my  Illinois  friend  knew  no  better  than  I  did. 
But  he  had  established  a  link  between  himself  and  his  far- 
off  home  through  me,  and  was  happy. 

While  this  was  passing  through  my  mind  I  took  a  fair 
look  at  him.  He  was  a  spare  young  fellow,  not  more  than 
thirty,  with  sandy  hair  and  eyebrows,  and  eyelashes  so  white 
as  to  be  almost  imperceptible.  He  was  dressed  in  black, 
somewhat  to  the  "rearward  o'  the  fashion,"  and  I  had  an 
odd  idea  that  it  had  been  his  wedding  suit,  and  it  after- 
wards appeared  I  was  right.  His  manner  had  the  precision 
and  much  of  the  dogmatism  of  the  country  schoolmaster, 
accustomed  to  wrestle  with  the  feeblest  intellects.  From 
his  history,  which  he  presently  gave  me,  it  appeared  I  was 
right  here  also. 

He  was  born  and  bred  in  a  Western  State,  and,  as 
schoolmaster  of  Remus  and  Clerk  of  Supervisors,  had 
married  one  of  his  scholars,  the  daughter  of  a  clergyman, 
and  a  man  of  some  little  property.  He  had  attracted  some 
attention  by  his  powers  of  declamation,  and  was  one  of  the 
principal  members  of  the  Remus  Debating  Society.  The 
various  questions  then  agitating  Remus — "  Is  the  doctrine  of 
immortality  consistent  with  an  agricultural  life  ?  "  and,  "  Are 
round  dances  morally  wrong  ? " — afforded  him  an  oppor 


The  Office- Seeker.  463 

tunity  of  bringing  himself  prominently  before  the  country 
people.  Perhaps  I  might  have  seen  an  extract  copied  from 
the  "Remus  Sentinel"  in  the  "Christian  Recorder"  of 
May  7,  1875?  No?  He  would  get  it  for  me.  He  had 
taken  an  active  part  in  the  last  campaign.  He  did  not 
like  to  say  it,  but  it  had  been  universally  acknowledged 
that  he  had  elected  Gashwiler. 

Who? 

Gen.  Pratt  C.  Gashwiler,  member  of  Congress  from  our 
deestrict. 

Oh! 

A  powerful  man,  sir — a  very  powerful  man ;  a  man  whose 
influence  will  presently  be  felt  here,  sir — here  I  Well,  he 
had  come  on  with  Gashwiler,  and — well,  he  did  not  know 
why — Gashwiler  did  not  know  why  he  should  not,  you  know 
(a  feeble,  half-apologetic  laugh  here),  receive  that  reward, 
you  know,  for  these  services  which,  &c.,  &c. 

I  asked  him  if  he  had  any  particular  or  definite  office  in 
view. 

Well,  no.  He  had  left  that  to  Gashwiler.  Gashwiler 
had  said — he  remembered  his  very  words :  "  Leave  it  all 
to  me  ;  I'll  look  through  the  different  departments,  and  see 
what  can  be  done  for  a  man  of  your  talents." 

And— 

He's  looking.  I'm  expecting  him  back  here  every 
minute.  He's  gone  over  to  the  Department  of  Tape  to  see 
what  can  be  done  there.  Ah  !  here  he  comes. 

A  large  man  approached  us.  He  was  very  heavy,  very 
unwieldy,  very  unctuous  and  oppressive.  He  affected  the 
"honest  farmer,"  but  so  badly  that  the  poorest  husband- 
man would  have  resented  it.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  a 
cheap  lawyer  about  him  that  would  have  justified  any  self- 
respecting  judge  in  throwing  him  over  the  bar  at  once. 
There  was  a  military  suspicion  about  him  that  would  have 


464  The  Office-Seeker. 

entitled  him  to  a  court-martial  on  the  spot.  There  was  an 
introduction,  from  which  I  learned  that  my  office-seeking 
friend's  name  was  Expectant  Dobbs.  And  then  Gashwiler 
addressed  me : — 

"  Our  young  friend  here  is  waiting,  waiting.  Waiting,  I 
may  say,  on  the  affairs  of  State.  Youth,"  continued  the 
Hon.  Mr.  Gashwiler,  addressing  an  imaginary  constituency, 
"  is  nothing  but  a  season  of  waiting — of  preparation — ha, 
ha!" 

As  he  laid  his  hand  in  a  fatherly  manner — a  fatherly 
manner  that  was  as  much  of  a  sham  as  anything  else  about 
him — I  don't  know  whether  I  was  more  incensed  at  him  or 
his  victim,  who  received  it  with  evident  pride  and  satis- 
faction. Nevertheless  he  ventured  to  falter  out : — 

"  Has  anything  been  done  yet  ?  " 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  can't  say  that  anything — that  is,  that  any- 
thing has  been  completed;  but  I  may  say  we  are  in  excellent 
position  for  an  advance — ha,  ha !  But  we  must  wait,  my 
young  friend,  wait.  What  is  it  the  Latin  philosopher  says  ? 
'  Let  us  by  all  means  hasten  slowly ' — ha,  ha  ! "  and  he 
turned  to  me  as  if  saying  confidentially,  "Observe  the 
impatience  of  these  boys  ! "  "I  met,  a  moment  ago,  my 
old  friend  and  boyhood's  companion,  Jim  M'Glasher,  chief 
of  the  Bureau  for  the  Dissemination  of  Useless  Information, 
and,"  lowering  his  voice  to  a  mysterious  but  audible  whisper, 
"  I  shall  see  him  again  to-morrow." 

The  "  All  aboard ! "  of  the  railway  omnibus  at  this 
moment  tore  me  from  the  presence  of  this  gifted  legislator 
•and  his  protege ;  but  as  we  drove  away  I  saw  through  the 
open  window  the  powerful  mind  of  Gashwiler  operating,  so 
to  speak,  upon  the  susceptibilities  of  Mr.  Dobbs. 

I  did  not  meet  him  again  for  a  week.  The  morning  of 
my  return  I  saw  the  two  conversing  together  in  the  hall, 
but  with  the  palpable  distinction  between  this  and  their 


The  Office- Seeker.  465 

former  interviews,  that  the  gifted  Gashwiler  seemed  to  be 
anxious  to  get  away  from  his  friend.  I  heard  him  say 
something  about  "  committees "  and  "  to-morrow,"  and 
when  Dobbs  turned  his  freckled  face  toward  me  I  saw  that 
he  had  got  at  last  some  expression  into  it — disappointment. 

I  asked  him  pleasantly  how  he  was  getting  on. 

He  had  not  lost  his  pride  yet.  He  was  doing  well, 
although  such  was  the  value  set  upon  his  friend  Gashwiler's 
abilities  by  his  brother  members  that  he  was  almost  always 
occupied  with  committee  business.  I  noticed  that  his 
clothes  were  not  in  as  good  case  as  before,  and  he  told  me 
that  he  had  left  the  hotel,  and  taken  lodgings  in  a  by-street, 
where  it  was  less  expensive.  Temporarily,  of  course. 

A  few  days  after  this  I  had  business  in  one  of  the  great 
departments.  From  the  various  signs  over  the  doors  of  its 
various  offices  and  bureaus  it  always  oddly  reminded  me  of 
Stewart's  or  Arnold  and  Constable's.  You  could  get  pen- 
sions, patents,  and  plants.  You  could  get  land  and  the 
seeds  to  put  in  it,  and  the  Indians  to  prowl  round  it,  and 
what  not.  There  was  a  perpetual  clanging  of  office  desk 
bells,  and  a  running  hither  and  thither  of  messengers  strongly 
suggestive  of  "  Cash  47." 

As  my  business  was  with  the  manager  of  this  Great 
National  Fancy  Shop,  I  managed  to  push  by  the  sad-eyed, 
eager-faced  crowd  of  men  and  women  in  the  anteroom,  and 
entered  the  secretary's  room,  conscious  of  having  left  behind 
me  a  great  deal  of  envy  and  uncharitableness  of  spirit.  As 
I  opened  the  door  I  heard  a  monotonous  flow  of  Western 
speech  which  I  thought  I  recognised.  There  was  no  mis-' 
taking  it.  It  was  the  voice  of  the  Gashwiler. 

"  The  appointment  of  this  man,  Mr.  Secretary,  would  be 
most  acceptable  to  the  people  in  my  deestrict.  His  family 
are  wealthy  and  influential,  and  it's  just  as  well  in  the  fall 
elections  to  have  the  supervisors  and  county  judge  pledged 

VOL.  III.  2  G 


466  The  Office-Seeker. 

to  support  the  administration.  Our  delegates  to  the  State 
Central  Committee  are  to  a  man  " — but  here,  perceiving 
from  the  wandering  eye  of  Mr.  Secretary  that  there  was 
another  man  in  the  room,  he  whispered  the  rest  with  a 
familiarity  that  must  have  required  all  the  politician  in  the 
official's  breast  to  keep  from  resenting. 

"  You  have  some  papers,  I  suppose  ?  "  asked  the  secretary 
wearily. 

Gashwiler  was  provided  with  a  pocketful,  and  produced 
them.  The  secretary  threw  them  on  the  table  among  the 
other  papers,  where  they  seemed  instantly  to  lose  their 
identity,  and  looked  as  if  they  were  ready  to  recommend 
anybody  but  the  person  they  belonged  to.  Indeed,  in 
one  corner  the  entire  Massachusetts  delegation,  with  the 
Supreme  Bench  at  their  head,  appeared  to  be  earnestly 
advocating  the  manuring  of  Iowa  waste  lands ;  and  to  the 
inexperienced  eye,  a  noted  female  reformer  had  apparently 
appended  her  signature  to  a  request  for  a  pension  for 
wounds  received  in  battle. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  secretary,  "  I  think  I  have  a 
letter  here  from  somebody  in  your  district  asking  an  appoint- 
ment, and  referring  to  you  ?  Do  you  withdraw  it  ?  " 

"If  anybody  has  been  presuming  to  speculate  upon 
my  patronage,"  said  the  Hon.  Mr.  Gashwiler  with  rising 
rage. 

"  I've  got  the  letter  somewhere  here,"  said  the  secretary, 
looking  dazedly  at  his  table.  He  made  a  feeble  movement 
among  the  papers,  and  then  sank  back  hopelessly  in  his 
chair,  and  gazed  out  of  the  window  as  if  he  thought  and 
rather  hoped  it  might  have  flown  away.  "  It  was  from  a  Mr. 
Globbs,  or  Gobbs,  or  Dobbs,  of  Remus,"  he  said  finally, 
after  a  superhuman  effort  of  memory. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing — a  foolish  fellow  who  has  been 
boring  me  for  the  last  month." 


The  Office-Seeker.  467 

"Then  I  am  to  understand  that  this  application  is 
withdrawn  ?  " 

"  As  far  as  my  patronage  is  concerned,  certainly.  In  fact, 
such  an  appointment  would  not  express  the  sentiments — 
indeed,  I  may  say,  would  be  calculated  to  raise  active 
opposition  in  the  deestrict." 

The  secretary  uttered  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  the  gifted  Gash- 
wiler  passed  out.  I  tried  to  get  a  good  look  at  the  honour- 
able scamp's  eye,  but  he  evidently  did  not  recognise  me. 

It  was  a  question  in  my  mind  whether  I  ought  not  to 
expose  the  treachery  of  Dobbs's  friend,  but  the  next  time  I 
met  Dobbs  he  was  in  such  good  spirits  that  I  forebore.  It 
appeared  that  his  wife  had  written  to  him  that  she  had 
discovered  a  second  cousin  in  the  person  of  the  Assistant 
Superintendent  of  the  Envelope  Flap  Moistening  Bureau  of 
the  Department  of  Tape,  and  had  asked  his  assistance  ;  and 
Dobbs  had  seen  him,  and  he  had  promised  it.  "  You  see," 
said  Dobbs,  "  in  the  performance  of  his  duties  he  is  often 
very  near  the  person  of  the  secretary,  frequently  in  the  next 
room,  and  he  is  a  powerful  man,  sir — a  powerful  man  to 
know,  sir — a  very  powerful  man." 

How  long  this  continued  I  do  not  remember.  Long 
enough,  however,  for  Dobbs  to  become  quite  seedy,  for  the 
giving  up  of  wrist-cuffs,  for  the  neglect  of  shoes  and  beard, 
and  for  great  hollows  to  form  round  his  eyes,  and  a  slight 
flush  on  his  cheek-bones.  I  remember  meeting  him  in  all 
the  departments,  writing  letters  or  waiting  patiently  in  ante- 
rooms from  morning  till  night.  He  had  lost  all  his  old 
dogmatism,  but  not  his  pride.  "  I  might  as  well  be  here 
as  anywhere,  while  I'm  waiting,"  he  said,  "and  then  I'm 
getting  some  knowledge  of  the  details  of  official  life." 

In  the  face  of  this  mystery  I  was  surprised  at  finding  a 
note  from  him  one  day,  inviting  me  to  dine  with  him  at 
a  certain  famous  restaurant.  I  had  scarce  got  over  my 


468  The  Office-Seeker. 

amazement,  when  the  writer  himself  overtook  me  at  my 
hotel.  For  a  moment  I  scarcely  recognised  him.  A  new 
suit  of  fashionably-cut  clothes  had  changed  him  without, 
however,  entirely  concealing  his  rustic  angularity  of  figure 
and  outline.  He  even  affected  a  fashionable  dilettante  air, 
but  so  mildly  and  so  innocently  that  it  was  not  offensive. 

"  You  see,"  he  began,  explanatory-wise,  "  I've  just  found 
out  the  way  to  do  it.  None  of  these  big  fellows,  these 
cabinet  officers,  know  me  except  as  an  applicant.  Now, 
the  way  to  do  this  thing  is  to  meet  'em  fust  sociably ;  wine 
>em  and  dine  'em.  Why,  sir  " — he  dropped  into  the  school- 
master again  here — "  I  had  two  cabinet  ministers,  two  judges, 
and  a  general  at  my  table  last  night." 

"  On  your  invitation  ?  " 

"  Dear,  no !  all  I  did  was  to  pay  for  it  Tom  Soufflet 
gave  the  dinner  and  invited  the  people.  Everybody  knows 
Tom.  You  see,  a  friend  of  mine  put  me  up  to  it,  and  said 
that  Soufflet  had  fixed  up  no  end  of  appointments  and  jobs 
in  that  way.  You  see,  when  these  gentlemen  get  sociable 
over  their  wine,  he  says,  carelessly,  "By  the  way,  there's 
So-and-so — a  good  fellow — wants  something;  give  it  to 
him."  And  the  first  thing  you  know,  or  they  know,  he  gets 
a  promise  from  them.  They  get  a  dinner — and  a  good  one 
— and  he  gets  an  appointment." 

"  But  where  did  you  get  the  money  ?  " 

"Oh" — he  hesitated— "I  wrote  home,  and  Fanny's 
father  raised  fifteen  hundred  dollars  some  way,  and  sent  it 
to  me.  I  put  it  down  to  political  expenses."  He  laughed 
a  weak  foolish  laugh  here,  and  added,  "As  the  old  man 
don't  drink  nor  smoke,  he'd  lift  his  eyebrows  to  know  how 
the  money  goes.  But  I'll  make  it  all  right  when  the  office 
comes — and  she's  coming,  sure  pop." 

His  slang  fitted  as  poorly  on  him  as  his  clothes,  and  his 
familiarity  was  worse  than  his  former  awkward  shyness.  But 


The  Office-Seeker.  469 

I  could  not  help  asking  him  what  had  been  the  result  of 
this  expenditure. 

"  Nothing  just  yet.  But  the  Secretary  of  Tape  and  the 
man  at  the  head  of  the  Inferior  Department,  both  spoke 
to  me,  and  one  of  them  said  he  thought  he'd  heard  my 
name  before.  He  might,"  he  added  with  a  forced  laugh, 
"for  I've  written  him  fifteen  letters." 

Three  months  passed.  A  heavy  snowstorm  stayed  my 
chariot  wheels  on  a  Western  railroad,  ten  miles  from  a  ner- 
vous lecture  committee  and  a  waiting  audience ;  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  make  the  attempt  to  reach  them  in  a 
sleigh.  But  the  way  was  long  and  the  drifts  deep  ;  and  when 
at  last  four  miles  out  we  reached  a  little  village,  the  driver 
declared  his  cattle  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and  we  must 
stop  there.  Bribes  and  threats  were  equally  of  no  avail.  I 
had  to  accept  the  fact. 

"  What  place  is  this  ?  " 

"  Remus." 

"  Remus,  Remus,"  where  had  I  heard  that  name  before  ? 
But  while  I  was  reflecting  he  drove  up  before  the  door  of 
the  tavern.  It  was  a  dismal,  sleep-forbidding  place,  and 
only  nine  o'clock,  and  here  was  the  long  winter's  night  before 
me.  Failing  to  get  the  landlord  to  give  me  a  team  to  go 
farther,  I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate  and  a  cigar,  behind  the 
redhot  stove.  In  a  few  moments  one  of  the  loungers 
approached  me,  calling  me  by  name,  and  in  a  rough  but  hearty 
fashion  condoled  me  for  my  mishap,  advising  me  to  stay  at 
Remus  all  night,  and  added  :  "  The  quarters  ain't  the  best 
in  the  world  yer  at  this  hotel.  But  thar's  an  old  man  yer — 
the  preacher  that  was — that  for  twenty  years  hez  taken  in 
such  fellers  as  you  and  lodged  'em  free  gratis  for  nothing,  and 
hez  been  proud  to  do  it.  The  old  man  used  to  be  rich  ;  he 
ain't  so  now ;  sold  his  big  house  on  the  cross-roads,  and 
lives  in  a  little  cottage  with  his  darter  right  over  van. 


470  The  Office-Seeker. 

But  ye  couldn't  do  him  a  better  turn  than  to  go  over  that 
and  stay,  and  if  he  thought  I'd  let  ye  go  out  o'  Remus  with- 
out axing  ye,  he'd  give  me  h — 11.  Stop,  I'll  go  with  ye." 

I  might  at  least  call  on  the  old  man,  and  I  accompanied 
my  guide  through  the  still  falling  snow  until  we  reached  a 
little  cottage.  The  door  opened  to  my  guide's  knock,  and 
with  the  brief  and  discomposing  introduction,  "  Yer,  ole  man, 
I've  brought  you  one  of  them  snowbound  lecturers,"  he  left 
me  on  the  threshold,  as  my  host,  a  kindly-faced,  white 
haired  man  of  seventy,  came  forward  to  greet  me. 

His  frankness  and  simple  courtesy  overcame  the  em- 
barrassment left  by  my  guide's  introduction,  and  I  followed 
him  passively  as  he  entered  the  neat  but  plainly-furnished 
sitting-room.  At  the  same  moment  a  pretty,  but  faded 
young  woman  arose  from  the  sofa  and  was  introduced  to  me 
as  his  daughter.  "  Fanny  and  I  live  here  quite  alone,  and 
if  you  knew-  how  good  it  was  to  see  somebody  from  the 
great  outside  world  now  and  then,  you  would  not  apologise 
for  what  you  call  your  intrusion." 

During  this  speech  I  was  vaguely  trying  to  recall  where 
and  when  and  under  what  circumstances  I  had  ever  before 
seen  the  village,  the  house,  the  old  man  or  his  daughter. 
Was  it  in  a  dream,  or  in  one  of  those  dim  reveries  of  some 
previous  existence  to  which  the  spirit  of  mankind  is  sub- 
ject ?  I  looked  at  them  again.  In  the  careworn  lines 
around  the  once  pretty  girlish  mouth  of  the  young  woman, 
in  the  furrowed  seams  over  the  forehead  of  the  old  man, 
in  the  ticking  of  the  old-fashioned  clock  on  the  shelf,  in  the 
faint  whisper  of  the  falling  snow  outside,  I  read  the  legend, 
"Patience,  patience  ;  Wait  and  Hope." 

The  old  man  filled  a  pipe,  and  offering  me  one,  continued, 
"Although  I  seldom  drink  myself,  it  was  my  custom  to 
always  keep  some  nourishing  liquor  in  my  house  for  passing 
guests,  but  to-night  I  find  myself  without  any."  I  hastened 


The  Office-Seeker.  471 

to  offer  him  my  flask;  which,  after  a  moment's  coyness,  he 
accepted,  and  presently  under  its  benign  influence  at  least 
ten  years  dropped  from  his  shoulders,  and  he  sat  up  in  his 
chair  erect  and  loquacious. 

"  And  how  are  affairs  at  the  National  Capital,  sir  ?  "  he 
began. 

Now,  if  there  was  any  subject  of  which  I  was  profoundly 
ignorant,  it  was  this.  But  the  old  man  was  evidently  bent 
on  having  a  good  political  talk.  So  I  said  vaguely,  yet  with 
a  certain  sense  of  security,  that  I  guessed  there  wasn't  much 
being  done. 

"  I  see/'  said  the  old  man,  "  in  the  matters  of  resumption 
of  the  sovereign  rights  of  States  and  federal  interference,  you 
would  imply  that  a  certain  conservative  tentative  policy  is  not 
to  be  promulgated  until  after  the  electoral  committee  have 
given  their  verdict."  I  looked  for  help  towards  the  lady, 
and  observed  feebly  that  he  had  very  clearly  expressed  my 
views. 

The  old  man,  observing  my  looks,  said,  "Although  my 
daughter's  husband  holds  a  federal  position  in  Washington, 
the  pressure  of  his  business  is  so  great  that  he  has  little 
time  to  give  us  mere  gossip — I  beg  your  pardon,  did  you 
speak  ?  " 

I  had  unconsciously  uttered  an  exclamation.  This,  then, 
was  Remus — the  home  of  Expectant  Dobbs — and  these  his 
wife  and  father ;  and  the  Washington  banquet-table,  ah  me  ! ' 
had  sparkled  with  the  yearning  heart's  blood  of  this  poor 
wife,  and  had  been  upheld  by  this  tottering  Caryatid  of  a 
father. 

"  Do  you  know  what  position  he  has  ?  " 

The  old  man  did  not  know  positively,  but  thought  it  was 
some  general  supervising  position.  He  had  been  assured 
by  Mr.  Gashwiler  that  it  was  a  first-class  clerkship ;  yes,  a 


4? 2  The  Office-Seeker. 

I  did  not  tell  him  that  in  this,  as  in  many  other  official 
regulations  in  Washington,  they  reckoned  backward,  but 
said — 

"I  suppose  that  your  M.  C.,  Mr. — Mr.  Gashwiler" 

"  Don't  mention  his  name,"  said  the  little  woman,  rising 
to  her  feet  hastily ;  "  he  never  brought  Expectant  anything 
but  disappointment  and  sorrow.  I  hate,  I  despise,  the 
man." 

"  Dear  Fanny,"  expostulated  the  old  man  gently,  "  this  is 
unchristian  and  unjust.  Mr.  Gashwiler  is  a  powerful,  a  very 
powerful  man  !  His  work  is  a  great  one ;  his  time  is  pre- 
occupied with  weightier  matters." 

"  His  time  was  not  so  preoccupied  but  he  could  make 
use  of  poor  Expectant,"  said  this  wounded  dove  a  little 
spitefully. 

Nevertheless  it  was  some  satisfaction  to  know  that  Dobbs 
bad  at  last  got  a  place,  no  matter  how  unimportant,  or  who 
had  given  it  to  him  ;  and  when  I  went  to  bed  that  night  in 
the  room  that  had  been  evidently  prepared  for  their  con- 
jugal chamber,  I  felt  that  Dobbs's  worst  trials  were  over. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  souvenirs  of  their  antenuptial 
days.  There  was  a  portrait  of  Dobbs,  aetat  25  ;  there  was 
a  faded  bouquet  in  a  glass  case,  presented  by  Dobbs  tc 
Fanny  on  examination-day  j  there  was  a  framed  resolution 
of  thanks  to  Dobbs  from  the  Remus  Debating  Society ; 
there  was  a  certificate  of  Dobbs's  election  as  President  of 
the  Remus  Philomathean  Society;  there  was  his  commis- 
sion as  Captain  in  the  Remus  Independent  Contingent  of 
Home  Guards  ;  there  was  a  Freemason's  chart,  in  which 
Dobbs  was  addressed  in  epithets  more  fulsome  and  extrava- 
gant than  any  living  monarch.  And  yet  all  these  cheap 
glories  of  a  narrow  life  and  narrower  brain  were  upheld  and 
made  sacred  by  the  love  of  the  devoted  priestess  who  wor- 
shipped at  this  homely  shrine,  and  kept  the  light  burning 


The  Office-Seeker.  473 

through  gloom  and  doubt  and  despair.  The  storm  tore 
round  the  house,  and  shook  its  white  fists  in  the  windows. 
A  dried  wreath  of  laurel  that  Fanny  had  placed  on  Dobbs's 
head  after  his  celebrated  centennial  address  at  the  school- 
house,  July  4,  1876,  swayed  in  the  gusts,  and  sent  a  few  of 
its  dead  leaves  down  on  the  floor,  and  I  lay  in  Dobbs's  bed 
and  wondered  what  a  first-class  clerkship  was. 

I  found  out  early  the  next  summer.  I  was  strolling  through 
the  long  corridors  of  a  certain  great  department,  when  I 
came  upon  a  man  accurately  yoked  across  the  shoulders, 
and  supporting  two  huge  pails  of  ice  on  either  side,  from 
which  he  was  replenishing  the  pitchers  in  the  various  offices. 
As  I  passed  I  turned  to  look  at  him  again.  It  was  Dobbs  ! 

He  did  not  set  down  his  burden  ;  it  was  against  the  rules, 
he  said.  But  he  gossiped  cheerily,  said  he  was  beginning 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  but  expected  soon  to  climb  up. 
That  it  was  Civil  Service  Reform,  and  of  course  he  would 
be  promoted  soon. 

"Had  Gashwiler  procured  the  appointment?" 

No.  He  believed  it  was  me.  I  had  told  his  story  to 
Assistant-Secretary  Blank,  who  had  in  turn  related  it  to 
Bureau-Director  Dash — both  good  fellows — but  this  was  all 
they  could  do.  Yes,  it  was  a  foothold.  But  he  must  go 
now. 

Nevertheless  I  followed  him  up  and  down,  and,  cheered 
up  with  a  rose-coloured  picture  of  his  wife  and  family,  and 
my  visit  there,  and  promising  to  come  and  see  him  the 
next  time  I  came  to  Washington,  I  left  him  with  his  self- 
imposed  yoke. 

With  a  new  administration  Civil  Service  Reform  came 
in,  crude  and  ill-digested,  as  all  sudden  and  sweeping  reforms 
must  be ;  cruel  to  the  individual,  as  all  crude  reforms  will 
ever  be ;  and  among  the  list  of  helpless  men  and  women, 
incapacitated  for  other  work  by  long  service  in  the  dull 


4/4  The  Office- Seeker. 

routine  of  federal  office  who  were  decapitated,  the  weak, 
foolish,  emaciated  head  of  Expectant  Dobbs  went  to  the 
block.  It  afterward  appeared  that  the  gifted  Gashwiler 
was  responsible  for  the  appointment  of  twenty  clerks,  and 
that  the  letter  of  poor  Dobbs,  in  which  he  dared  to  refer  to 
the  now  powerless  Gashwiler,  had  sealed  his  fate.  The 
country  made  an  example  of  Gashwiler  and — Dobbs. 

From  that  moment  he  disappeared.  I  looked  for  him 
in  vain  in  anterooms,  lobbies,  and  hotel  corridors,  and 
finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  had  gone  home. 

How  beautiful  was  that  July  Sabbath,  when  the  morning 
train  from  Baltimore  rolled  into  the  Washington  depot ! 
How  tenderly  and  chastely  the  morning  sunlight  lay  on  the 
east  front  of  the  Capitol  until  the  whole  building  was  hushed 
in  a  grand  and  awful  repose  !  How  difficult  it  was  to  think 
of  a  Gashwiler  creeping  in  and  out  of  those  enfiling  columns, 
or  crawling  beneath  that  portico,  without  wondering  that 
yon  majestic  figure  came  not  down  with  flat  of  sword  to 
smite  the  fat  rotundity  of  the  intruder !  How  difficult  to 
think  that  parricidal  hands  have  ever  been  lifted  against 
the  Great  Mother,  typified  here  in  the  graceful  white 
chastity  of  her  garments,  in  the  noble  tranquillity  of  her  face, 
in  the  gathering  up  her  white-robed  children  within  her 
shadow  ! 

This  led  me  to  think  of  Dobbs,  when,  suddenly,  a  face 
flashed  by  my  carriage  window.  I  called  to  the  driver  to 
stop,  and,  looking  again,  saw  that  it  was  a  woman  standing 
bewildered  and  irresolute  on  the  street  corner.  As  she 
turned  her  anxious  face  toward  me  I  saw  that  it  was  Mrs. 
Dobbs. 

What  was  she  doing  here,  and  where  was  Expectant  ? 

She  began  an  incoherent  apology,  and  then  burst  into 
explanatory  tears.  When  I  had  got  her  in  the  carriage  she 
said,  between  her  sobs,  that  Expectant  had  not  returned ; 


The  Office-Seeker  475 

that  she  had  received  a  letter  from  a  friend  here  saying  he 
was  sick — oh,  very,  very  sick — and  father  could  not  come 
with  her,  so  she  came  alone.  She  was  so  frightened,  so 
lonely,  so  miserable. 

Had  she  his  address  ? 

Yes,  just  here  !  It  was  on  the  outskirts  of  Washington, 
near  Georgetown.  Then  I  would  take  her  there,  if  I  could, 
for  she  knew  nobody. 

On  our  way  I  tried  to  cheer  her  up 'by  pointing  out 
some  of  the  children  of  the  Great  Mother  before  alluded  to, 
but  she  only  shut  her  eyes  as  we  rolled  down  the  long 
avenues,  and  murmured,  "  Oh,  these  cruel,  cruel  distances  !" 

At  last  we  reached  the  locality,  a  negro  quarter,  yet 
clean  and  neat  in  appearance.  I  saw  the  poor  girl  shudder 
slightly  as  we  stopped  at  the  door  of  a  low,  two-storey  frame 
house,  from  which  the  unwonted  spectacle  of  a  carriage 
brought  a  crowd  of  half-naked  children  and  a  comely,  cleanly, 
kind-faced  mulatto  woman. 

Yes,  this  was  the  house.  He  was  upstairs,  rather  poorly, 
but  asleep,  she  thought. 

We  went  upstairs.  In  the  first  chamber,  clean,  though 
poorly  furnished,  lay  Dobbs.  On  a  pine  table  near  his  bed 
were  letters  and  memorials  to  the  various  departments,  and 
on  the  bed-quilt,  unfinished,  but  just  as  the  weary  fingers 
had  relaxed  their  grasp  upon  it,  lay  a  letter  to  the  Tape 
Department. 

As  we  entered  the  room  he  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow. 
"  Fanny  !  "  he  said  quickly,  and  a  shade  of  disappointment 
crossed  his  face.  "  I  thought  it  was  a  message  from  the 
secretary,"  he  added  apologetically. 

The  poor  woman  had  suffered  too  much  already  to  shrink 
from  this  last  crushing  blow.  But  she  walked  quietly  to 
his  side  without  a  word  or  cry,  knelt,  placed  her  loving  arms 
around  him,  and  I  left  them  so  together. 


476  The  Office-Seeker. 

When  I  called  again  in  the  evening  he  was  better  •  so 
much  better  that,  against  the  doctor's  orders,  he  had  talked  to 
her  quite  cheerfully  and  hopefully  for  an  hour,  until  suddenly 
raising  her  bowed  head  in  his  two  hands,  he  said,  "  Do  you 
know,  dear,  that  in  looking  for  help  and  influence  there 
was  One,  dear,  I  had  forgotten ;  One  who  is  very  potent 
with  kings  and  councillors ;  and  I  think,  love,  I  shall  ask 
Him  to  interest  Himself  in  my  behalf.  It  is  not  too  late 
yet,  darling,  and  I  shall  seek  him  to-morrow." 

And  before  the  morrow  came  he  had  sought  and  found 
Him,  and  I  doubt  not  got  a  good  place. 


(    477    ) 


(KUttf)  tfje 


"  ONCE,  when  I  was  a  pirate  i  "  — 

The  speaker  was  an  elderly  gentleman  in  correct  evening 
dress,  the  room  a  tasteful  one,  the  company  of  infinite 
respectability,  the  locality  at  once  fashionable  and  exclusive, 
the  occasion  an  unexceptionable  dinner.  To  this  should 
be  added  that  the  speaker  was  also  the  host. 

With  these  conditions  self-evident,  all  that  good  breeding 
could  do  was  to  receive  the  statement  with  a  vague  smile 
that  might  pass  for  good-humoured  incredulity  or  courteous 
acceptation  of  a  simple  fact.  Indeed,  I  think  we  all  rather 
tried  to  convey  the  impression  that  our  host,  when  he  was 
a  pirate  —  if  he  ever  really  was  one  —  was  all  that  a  self- 
respecting  pirate  should  be,  and  never  violated  the  canons 
of  good  society.  This  idea  was,  to  some  extent,  crystallised 
by  the  youngest  Miss  Jones  in  the  exclamation,  "  Oh,  how 
nice  !  " 

"  It  was,  of  course,  many  years  ago,  when  I  was  quite  a 
lad." 

We  all  murmured  "  Certainly,"  as  if  piracy  were  a  natural 
expression  of  the  exuberance  of  youth. 

"  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  explain  the  circumstances  that  led 
me  into  this  way  of  life." 

Here  Legrande,  a  courteous  attach'e  of  the  Patagonian 
legation,  interposed  in  French  and  an  excess  of  politeness, 
"that  it  was  not  of  a  necessity,"  a  statement  to  which  his 
English  neighbour  hurriedly  responded,  "  Out\  vui." 


478  With  the  Entries. 

"  There  ess  a  boke,"  he  continued,  in  a  well-bred,  rapid 
whisper,  "from  Captain  Canot — a  Frenchman — most  een- 
teresting — he  was — oh,  a  fine  man  of  education — and  what 
you  call  a  *  slavair ; '  "  but  here  he  was  quietly  nudged  into 
respectful  silence. 

"I  ran  away  from  home,"  continued  our  host.  He 
paused,  and  then  added,  appealingly,  to  the  two  distin- 
guished foreigners  present :  "  I  do  not  know  if  I  can  make 
you  understand  that  this  is  a  peculiarly  American  predilec- 
tion. The  exodus  of  the  younger  males  of  an  American 
family  against  the  parents'  wishes  does  not,  with  us,  neces- 
sarily carry  any  obloquy  with  it.  To  the  average  American 
the  prospect  of  fortune  and  a  better  condition  lies  outside 
of  his  home ;  with  you  the  home  means  the  estate,  the  suc- 
cession of  honours  or  titles,  the  surety  that  the  conditions 
of  life  shall  all  be  kept  intact.  With  us  the  children  who 
do  not  expect,  and  generally  succeed  in  improving  the 
fortunes  of  the  house,  are  marked  exceptions.  Do  I  make 
myself  clear  ?  " 

The  French-Patagonian  attache  thought  it  was  "  charming 
and  progressif."  The  Baron  Von  Pretzel  thought  he  had 
noticed  a  movement  of  that  kind  in  Germany,  which  was 
expressed  in  a  single  word  of  seventeen  syllables.  Viscount 
Piccadilly  said  to  his  neighbour  :  "  That,  you  know  now, 
the  younger  sons,  don't  you  see,  go  to  Australia,  you  know, 
in  some  beastly  trade — stock-raising  or  sheep — you  know ; 
but,  by  Jove  !  them  fellahs  " 

"  My  father  always  treated  me  well,"  continued  our  host. 
"I  shared  equally  with  my  brothers  the  privileges  and 
limitations  of  our  New  England  home.  Nevertheless,  I 
ran  away  and  went  to  sea  " 

"  To  see — what  ?  "  asked  Legrande. 

c<  Aller  sur  mer"  said  his  neighbour  hastily. 

"  Go  on  with  your  piracy  ! "  said  Miss  Jones. 


With  the  Entries.  483 

"Certainly,"  "Of  course,"  "Why  shouldn't  you?"  went 
round  the  table. 

"  Two  trustworthy  men  were  sent  ashore  with  instructions. 
We,  meanwhile,  lay  off  the  low,  palm-fringed  beach,  our 
crew  lying  on  their  oars,  or  giving  way  just  enough  to  keep 
the  boat's  head  to  the  breakers.  The  mate  and  myself  sat 
in  the  stern  sheets,  looking  shoreward  for  the  signal.  The 
night  was  intensely  black.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  never 
before  had  I  seen  the  phosphorescence  of  a  tropical  sea  so 
strongly  marked.  From  the  great  open  beyond,  luminous 
crests  and  plumes  of  pale  fire  lifted  themselves,  ghost-like, 
at  our  bows,  sank,  swept  by  us  with  long,  shimmering, 
undulating  trails,  broke  on  the  beach  in  silvery  crescents,  or 
shattered  their  brightness  on  the  black  rocks  of  the  pro- 
montory. The  whole  vast  sea  shone  arid  twinkled  like 
another  firmament,  against  which  the  figures  of  our  men, 
sitting  with  their  faces  toward  us,  were  outlined  darkly. 
The  grim,  set  features  of  our  first  mate,  sitting  beside  me, 
were  faintly  illuminated.  There  was  no  sound  but  the 
whisper  of  passing  waves  against  our  lapstreak,  and  the  low, 
murmuring  conversation  of  the  men.  I  had  my  face  toward 
the  shore.  As  I  looked  over  the  glimmering  expanse,  I 
suddenly  heard  the  whispered  name  of  our  first  mate.  As 
suddenly,  by  the  phosphorescent  light  that  surrounded  it,  I 
saw  the  long  trailing  hair  and  gleaming  shoulders  of  a 
woman  floating  beside  us.  Legrande,  you  are  positively 
drinking  nothing !  Lightbody,  you  are  shirking  the  Bur- 
gundy— you  used  to  like  it  ! " 

He  paused,  but  no  one  spoke. 

"  I — let  me  see  !  where  was  I  ?  Oh  yes  !  Well,  I  saw 
the  woman,  and  when  I  turned  to  call  the  attention  of  the 
first  mate  to  this  fact,  I  knew  instantly,  by  some  strange 
instinct,  that  he  had  seen  and  heard  her  too.  So,  from 


484  With  the  Entrees. 

that  moment  to  the  conclusion  of  our  little  drama,  we  were 
silent  but  enforced  spectators. 

"  She  swam  gracefully — silently  !  I  remember  noticing 
through  that  odd,  half-weird,  phosphorescent  light  which 
broke  over  her  shoulders  as  she  rose  and  fell  with  each 
quiet  stroke  of  her  splendidly  rounded  arms,  that  she  was  a 
mature,  perfectly-formed  woman.  I  remember,  also,  that 
when  she  reached  the  boat,  and,  supporting  herself  with 
one  small  hand  on  the  gunwale,  she  softly  called  the  mate 
in  a  whisper  by  his  Christian  name,  I  had  a  boyish  idea 
that  she  was — the — er — er — female  of  his  species — his — er 
natural  wife  !  I'm  boring  you — am  I  not  ?  " 

Two  or  three  heads  shook  violently  and  negatively.  The 
youngest,  and,  I  regret  to  say,  the  oldest^  Miss  Jones  uttered 
together  sympathetically,  "  Go  on — please  ;  do  ! " 

"The — woman  told  him  in  a  few  rapid  words  that  he 
had  been  betrayed ;  that  the  two  men  sent  ashore  were  now 
in  the  hands  of  the  authorities ;  that  a  force  was  being 
organised  to  capture  the  vessel ;  that  instant  flight  was 
necessary,  and  that  the  betrayer  and  traitor  was — my  friend, 
the  Portuguese,  Fernandez ! 

"  The  mate  raised  the  dripping,  little  brown  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  whispered  some  undistinguishable  words  in  her 
ear.  I  remember  seeing  her  turn  a  look  of  ineffable  love 
and  happiness  upon  his  grim,  set  face,  and  then  she  was 
gone,  She  dove  as  a  duck  dives,  and  I  saw  her  shapely 
head,  after  a  moment's  suspense,  reappear  a  cable's  length 
away  toward  the  shore. 

"  I  ventured  to  raise  my  eyes  to  the  mate's  face  ;  it  was 
cold  and  impassive.  I  turned  my  face  toward  the  crew ; 
they  were  conversing  in  whispers  with  each  other,  with 
their  faces  toward  us,  yet  apparently  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
scene  that  had  just  taken  place  in  the  stern.  There  was  a 


With  the  Entries.  485 

moment  of  silence,  and  then  the  mate's  voice  came  out 
quite  impassively,  but  distinctly  : — 

" '  Fernandez  ! 

"  '  Ay,  ay,  sir  ! 

"  '  Come  aft  and — bring  your  oar  with  you.' 

"He  did  so,  stumbling  over  the  men,  who,  engaged  in 
their  whispered  yarns,  didn't  seem  to  notice  him. 

"  '  See  if  you  can  find  soundings  here.' 

"  Fernandez  leaned  over  the  stern  and  dropped  his  oar 
to  its  shaft  in  the  phosphorescent  water.  But  he  touched 
no  bottom ;  the  current  brought  the  oar  at  right  angles 
presently  to  the  surface. 

"'Send  it  down,  man/  said  the  mate  imperatively; 
'down,  down.  Reach  over  there.  What  are  you  afraid 
of?  So ;  steady  there;  I'll  hold  you.' 

"  Fernandez  leaned  over  the  stern  and  sent  the  oar  and 
half  of  his  bared  brown  arm  into  the  water.  In  an  instant 
the  mate  caught  him  with  one  tremendous  potential  grip  at 
his  elbows,  and  forced  him  and  his  oar  head  downward  in 
the  waters.  The  act  was  so  sudden,  yet  so  carefully  pre- 
meditated, that  no  outcry  escaped  the  doomed  man.  Even 
the  launch  scarcely  dipped  her  stern  to  the  act.  In  that 
awful  moment  I  heard  a  light  laugh  from  one  of  the  men 
in  response  to  a  wanton  yarn  from  his  comrade.  James, 
bring  the  Vichy  to  Mr.  Lightbody  !  You'll  find  that  a  dash 
of  cognac  will  improve  it  wonderfully. 

"Well — to  go  on — a  few  bubbles  arose  to  the  surface. 
Fernandez  seemed  unreasonably  passive,  until  I  saw  that 
when  the  mate  had  gripped  his  elbows  with  his  hands  he 
had  also  firmly  locked  the  traitor's  knees  within  his  own. 
In  a  few  moments — it  seemed  to  me,  then,  a  century — the 
mate's  grasp  relaxed ;  the  body  of  Fernandez,  a  mere  limp, 
leaden  mass,  slipped  noiselessly  and  heavily  into  the  sea. 
There  was  no  splash.  The  ocean  took  it  calmly  and  quietly 


486  With  the  Entries. 

to  its  depths.  The  mate  turned  to  the  men,  without  deign- 
ing to  cast  a  glance  on  me. 

"'Oars  !' 

"The  men  raised  their  oars  apeak. 

"'Let  fall!' 

"  There  was  a  splash  in  the  water,  encircling  the  boat  in 
concentric  lines  of  molten  silver. 

"  '  Give  way  ! ' 

"  Well,  of  course,  that's  all !  We  got  away  in  time.  I 
knew  I  bored  you  awfully !  Eh  ?  Oh,  you  want  to  know 
what  became  of  the  woman — really,  I  don't  know !  And 
myself — oh,  I  got  away  at  Havana  !  Eh  ?  Certainly  ; 
James,  you'll  find  some  smelling  salts  in  my  bureau. 
Gentlemen,  I  fear  we  have  kept  the  ladies  too  long." 

But  they  had  already  risen,  and  were  slowly  filing  out  of 
the  room.  Only  one  lingered — the  youngest  Miss  Jones. 

"  That  was  a  capital  story,"  she  said,  pausing  beside  our 
host,  with  a  special  significance  in  her  usual  audacity.  "  Do 
you  know  you  absolutely  sent  cold  chills  down  my  spine  a 
moment  ago?  Really,  now,  you  ought  to  write  for  the 
magazines ! " 

Our  host  looked  up  at  the  pretty,  audacious  face.  Then 
he  said,  sotto  voce — 

"I  do!" 


END   OF  VOL.    Ill, 


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